


Handbook for Brave Ladies

by palmtreelights



Series: Rebuilding [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Character of Color, F/M, Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Male Character of Color, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmtreelights/pseuds/palmtreelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A visit from Effie's mother sends Effie and Haymitch to see Effie's family in the Capitol, where they witness firsthand the changes and growing pains of the shining city in the new republic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Scares the Strong

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after 'As the Sky', but it is NOT necessary to have read it to get this. To catch you up if you haven't read AtS, the gist is that Effie and a TV crew went to District Twelve to film a documentary on its recovery, it was a success, and thereafter, Effie stayed with Haymitch.

Early in the morning, Effie heads down the stairs of Haymitch's house in Victors Village, hiding a yawn behind her hand. The sun has only just begun to peek out over the horizon, painting the tops of the trees and houses a pale gold. The light filtering in through the curtains and windows is not yet enough to light the house's interior, but Effie makes the walk to the kitchen in the shadows, the prospect of greeting the morning bringing a small smile to her face.

She doesn't bother with the lights, goes instead to start some water boiling and sit at the counter to stare out the window at the waking world. It's mid fall, but there has been a warm spell for the past day or two, and they have been keeping a few windows open to help cool the house. This morning, it is chilly, just the way Effie like it. She tugs her robe tight about her and listens for the geese, for the larks and wrens, their familiar songs the only sounds to allay the dread that is twisting her stomach into knots.

"It's silly," she had told Haymitch the day before. "After everything that's happened, that something as simple as this scares me so much is—well, it's silly."

Haymitch had shrugged and said, "For what it's worth, I'm damn near terrified."

"You aren't even the one who has to face this," she had said, shaking her head. "I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll deal with it," he had stated, as if it were the simplest and best advice in the world. "It'll be fine. It's like you said, you've dealt with far worse. You can do this."

As she listens to the birdsong starting in earnest outside, Effie hopes that he's right.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs draws her from her thoughts; within moments, Haymitch shuffles into the kitchen, heading for the stove.

"I'll get it," she says, standing. "You're not awake enough to make coffee. You'll spill it everywhere."

He gets the tin of ground coffee out of the cupboards anyway, surprisingly coordinated for someone who looks as though he could sleep for another five hours.

"Consider it my gift to you," he tells her, reaching for their usual mugs. "You know, in solidarity."

Effie shakes her head, smiling, and goes to help him. "I appreciate it." She spares a moment to brush some hair out of his eyes, then gets the sugar and some spoons. Between the two of them, they're done within minutes, going to sit at the table with their steaming mugs. Effie grips hers tightly, afraid to drop it as she remembers today's task, and shudders, the strength draining from her momentarily.

"You look paler than normal," Haymitch remarks.

"It's just nerves," she says, shrugging. She takes a sip of coffee, but he is too perceptive despite his grogginess, and he sees the quick, tight grin she gives in the second before her mug touches her lips. She feels his eyes on her, sees him, out of the corner of her eye, frowning as he watches her.

"You're really that upset?" he half asks, half states. When she shrugs again, he says, "It's just your mother, Eff."

"You don't know her," she says at once. "All that I used to be—the timetables, the proper behavior, the sense of fashion— _don't laugh!_ —I learned all of that from her. And she's always been more of all of that than I have been. Which reminds me: I don't know what to wear!"

"Didn't you pick something out a few days ago?" His reaches for the long sleeve of her robe, lifting it at the end as if it will reveal another article of clothing underneath. "Red? Orange? Something garish."

" _Vermilion_ ," she corrects, pulling her arm back. "But I don't know anymore. It's a good color for the fall, but—" For a moment, she lets the sentence hang, mentally going through her wardrobe. It is smaller than it used to be, and more subdued as well, but still colorful, still her. The vermilion dress she had settled on has puffy sleeves and layered skirts, but it had felt more and more wrong the more she looked at it. She had left it ready to put on today, but she has been unconvinced of her choice since at least the night before.

Sighing, she sets her mug down on the table. "And that's _without_ thinking about what to do with my hair. Which color wig? Or maybe I should go with a scarf?"

"Just wear your real hair out."

She gasps, nearly knocking over her mug in her haste to bring a hand to her heart. "Are you _serious_?"

"Yes." He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, completely unaware of the audacity of his suggestion.

"I can't do that," she huffs, placing her hands one over the other on the table. Does he not understand, after all this time, that her hair is the one part of herself she has kept absolutely sacred for as long as she has been able? Growing it back since the rebellion has only made it more so, and even moving here for good hasn't changed that. Aside from Katniss seeing it on the morning she went to talk Effie out from within the shadows of a vivid nightmare, she has only allowed Haymitch to see her head uncovered, and she has not even considered making another exception for anyone.

"Why not?" he asks. "She's your mother. It's not like she hasn't seen it before."

"She hasn't seen it in… goodness, ten, fifteen years? I can't even remember the last time."

"So she's long overdue a look at it, isn't she?"

"That isn't the point." She presses her lips together, frowning at her mug, as if in it she'll find the words for what she cannot express. "It's as if… Well, you don't walk out into the world showing everyone your scars, do you?"

"That's because normal clothes cover them."

"But if they didn't, you still wouldn't, would you? You wouldn't just go outside naked."

"No," he says, "and fuck anyone who'd think of nudity as a fashion statement."

"Exactly." She sighs. "Obviously it isn't the same. Going out without covering my hair doesn't constitute nudity, but—" Frowning, she meets his gaze, the steadiness of his stare a comfort she cannot, in this moment, be without. "I was taught growing up that a person's worth was measured by how they could afford to dress. A person's body was a canvas, and we were all walking works of art as long as we were on trend. Being in any way natural was unthinkable. It was base. Ugly." The last word comes out in a whisper, the old stigma suddenly fresh in her mind. As she is right now, with her hair tied back and no make-up on her face, she is hideous by the standards which ruled her old life. Sometimes when she looks in the mirror in the morning, she is back in that world, and she wants to cover her face thrice over with make-up and wear the brightest wig she owns. Without those things, she isn't worth half a glance.

"My mother taught me how to make myself beautiful," she says softly. "I don't want to disappoint her."

Sighing, Haymitch sets down his mug. "Somehow, I don't think she'll be that upset with you if you aren't covered with glitter. I think she's plenty happy with the fact that you're alive."

"That's not good enough." She shuts her eyes. "It's been well over a year now."

"Why do you think she's even coming here?"

"I'm sorry?"

He holds her gaze for a moment when she looks at him again, then repeats slowly, "Why do you think she's even coming here?"

"To check up on me," Effie answers, frowning.

"To see you," he adds, nodding. "To see how you are."

"Yes." She waits a moment, but he merely nods. "I'm afraid I'm missing your point."

"She's coming _here_ , to the district you and everyone else thought was so miserable. She's putting aside what she believes about this place, all because she wants to see you. She could've asked you to go visit her, but she didn't. _She's_ making the trip. _She's_ facing whatever fears she has about Twelve."

He arches his eyebrows, staring straight at her, and as his words hit their mark, she gazes down at her hands.

When she had spoken with her mother on the phone last week, Effie had been too busy processing the news of her visit to even begin to understand the why of it, and she had forsaken reason, thinking instead of how it used to be. In those days, her mother would not have let Effie get away so easily with smearing the family name thus, and the visit would have been to offer her prodigal daughter one last chance to come home and rectify her mistakes. She could not force Effie to do things now, nor could she have then, but the reproach would still have been delivered, the shame shifted fully onto Effie's shoulders to bear for the rest of her life and perhaps after, if her transgression became a cautionary tale. Effie had regressed since that phone call, becoming defensive when the topic came up, spending more time in the bathroom every morning and enumerating the long list of her imperfections, classifying in her mind the additions to them from her time in captivity.

Old habits crept up so easily when something potentially threatening appeared.

"That's very sensible," she says, but she isn't yet sure she believes it. She has never known anyone from her old home to be so willing to understand an outside point of view.

"Do what you want," he tells her, leaning back in his chair. "Don't wear that _vermilion_ dress, though. It's ugly."

"You say that about all my dresses," she says, a hushed chuckle taking with it some of the tension in her frame. There is a lightness in the air now, and as the morning light brightens the kitchen, he rests his hand upon her forearm, she begins to feel brave.

 

* * *

 

Some three hours later, the passenger train makes its stop at Twelve, and Mitrodora Trinket calls from the station to announce her arrival.

"Give me half an hour, my dear, then come meet me at the town square," she says, her voice lilting and warping with the accent of the Capitol's upper classes.

Effie imitates it unconsciously, her former speech patterns coming to her with surprising ease. "Yes, of course. I'll see you shortly."

When Effie hangs up, Haymitch grimaces at her from where he is scrubbing away at the frying pan.

She heads for the bathroom without a word, avoiding meeting her own gaze as she brushes on a thin layer of eye shadow. After an hour of agonizing over what to wear, she had settled on a compromise: one of the subtler dresses she owns in a style she has come to love since relocating, enough make-up to cover the scars on her face without giving her skin the appearance of hard, unfeeling porcelain, and a wig of pale pink, an old favorite that her mother had given her years ago.

Downstairs, she hesitates a moment by the door, and Haymitch takes the opportunity to place a flower, a dahlia from the vase she keeps on the coffee table, in her wig.

"Thank you," she breathes.

"Relax," he says. "It's just a short visit. It'll be over before you know it."

"I'm being ridiculous." She inhales deeply and stands to her full height. "If I'm not back by sunset, go look for me."

"I'll be sure to do that," he says, rolling his eyes.

She smiles, touches his arm, and heads outside.

A hint of last night's chill hangs in the air, but a few seconds in the sun warm Effie's skin even through the long sleeves of her light green dress. She's wearing her favorite pair of boots, brown ones commissioned from Marsh, the shoemaker. Effie works far less now than a year ago, but she makes enough to afford new clothes and accessories. She buys most of her things in town, but sometimes she will treat herself to imports, mostly finer gowns and fabrics from Eight. A few months ago, she had asked Marsh if he could make a pair of boots with a few inches to their heels, and since he'd completed them, she had been in bliss.

They may not be in style, but perhaps they will impress solely because she loves them so.

She spots her mother from afar, a particularly bright spot amid the colors of the new town square. Twelve has blossomed in the arms of its newfound freedom, its residents finding happiness in the little things that Effie and her people had taken for granted for generations. But even against the backdrop of a cheerful basket of flowers atop a decorative pillar, her mother's orange and violet outfit stands out. Pursing her lips, Effie approaches her, making bets with herself as to how long it will take for her mother to identify her amid the bustling crowd of a work day at mid-morning.

It turns out to be not long at all. As soon as Effie enters the square proper, her mother waves her over, and after double kiss on each cheek, they sit on a nearby bench, just under the shade of a young oak.

"I'm staying at such a lovely place," says Mitrodora. "It's small, but clean. Tastefully decorated, too. Overall, I would say it's absolutely charming!"

"I'm glad you think so," says Effie.

"I would have come earlier, but do you know that they are booked for weeks in advance? And it's such a small place!" Mitrodora shrugs. "You've done them a world of good, dearest."

Effie shrugs, giving a half-hearted smile. "I wonder about that sometimes." The steady influx of visitors has been good for local business owners, but the fawning of her former compatriots has been off-putting. She has heard about it from the inn's manager, who opens her dining room to the residents of Victors Village when they come by with special baked goods. It's a small, cozy space, and now Peeta's baked goods are rationed out to ensure everyone gets to enjoy at least one pastry. As the manager watches people pass and the supply of pastries dwindle, she shares, under her breath, complaints about some of the more irritating visitors.

"Thanks to _you_ ," she says sometimes, staring right at Effie. Then she laughs and pats Effie's shoulder. "Business is good."

"There's a doctor from District Two in the room next to me," Mitrodora continues. "He's a gem of a man, so thoughtful. I was happy to see you'll have someone to go to should something ever happen."

"Yes."

"I'm so glad to see you kept that wig, darling. It was always one of my favorites."

"Oh—yes," Effie says, smiling. She had forgotten how quickly her mother could jump from one topic to the next; smiling is the only way she can think of to excuse herself for not keeping up. "Of course I kept it. It's one of my favorites as well."

Mitrodora nods, glancing down at Effie's shoes, doubtless evaluating the whole of her daughter's outfit. Effie digs her nails into her palms, fighting the impulse to turn away. When the silence becomes too long to bear, she asks, "How long will you be staying?"

"I'm not certain yet," her mother replies. "I haven't purchased my return ticket." She pauses a moment, then adds, "I was hoping I would buy two of them and you would come with me."

"Mother—" Effie presses her lips together, pressing her nails deeper into her palms. "I live here now."

"Ah, that you do. Yes, indeed." Mitrodora nods. "May I assume we'll be planning a wedding soon?"

" _Mother_ ," Effie gasps, frowning. "I—"

"Forgive me my forwardness," Mitrodora continues. "It's just that we expected you and Seneca Crane to marry, you know, and we were so excited. But then he—well, I needn't remind you."

Yet she has done just that, and the memories of those days tear through Effie's heart anew. Her chest burns. Tears sting her eyes. She takes a deep, slow breath, counting to ten from start to finish. Her mother does not know the truth about Seneca's death. Few do, for in the face of countless crimes against the people of Panem, the execution of an accomplice to those transgressions is but a minor detail. Heavensbee would probably die for a story on that, but Effie has walked away from television work for a long, long while.

"Now you have the victor."

"Haymitch," Effie says at once. "His name is Haymitch."

"Haymitch Abernathy. Who could ever forget?" Mitrodora looks up and smiles, staring at a storefront across the square. "Who would have thought? My daughter, charming men held in such esteem."

She means it as praise, but Effie winces regardless. It's too much old Capitol, too real, too immediate. "That was never how I intended it," she says. "It's just how it happened."

Nodding, Mitrodora sighs. "I only want to see you happy, Effie."

"That's—"

"And I wanted you to know what it's like to have a family of your own. Your brother gave me grandchildren, but it would be different if—"

"I can't." Effie lowers her gaze and frowns. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be rude by interrupting you, but—" She inhales deeply, meeting her mother's gaze, her guard down for the second it takes to repeat her confession. "I can't.

Again Mitrodora nods. The simple gesture renders her older than she looks, doing away, for just a moment, with what cosmetic surgery and make-up have sought to hide for years now. In only one year since the rebirth of their nation, time has taken a heavy toll on them all.

"I am trying to understand," Mitrodora admits. "It's difficult, mind you. There is so much to process. But I am trying very hard because I think you have been made to endure enough."

Effie bites the insides of her cheeks as she nods, counting through a breath.

"But please also understand that we miss you very much," her mother continues, a hint of desperation making her voice tremble before she quietly clears her throat.

"I know."

"Please consider a visit now and again, for a day or two."

"I will."

"Don't feel obligated, but please consider it."

Nodding, Effie repeats, "I will." The promise binds her spirit, and she will never be able to undo it.

 

* * *

 

Haymitch is waiting for her in the kitchen, a mug set out for her on the table, next to a glass with his choice of liquor for the day. When she sees him, she stops by the table, and when it becomes clear that she does not intend to move, he stands and goes to her.

Wordlessly, Effie slides her arms about his waist and rests her head on his chest. In response, he holds her close, gentle despite the tension in his frame. They are used to this now, these silent exchanges that promise safety and comfort, banishing one another's ghosts even if only for a while.

"That bad?" he asks after some time.

She tightens her hold on his shirt. It's too soon, and she has not yet processed her thoughts well enough to form words. Shifting, she lifts a hand to her head and says, "Help me take this off."

By now he is as fast as she is at this, his nimble fingers finding and removing pins and wig and cap with care. She sets the wig on the table, adjusting the dahlia in its pale pink curls as Haymitch smoothes her hair into place.

Breathing shakily, she glances at the table and sees the glass and the mug as if for the first time since arriving.

"You made me tea," she says, meeting his gaze.

"Have to boil the water, actually," he clarifies, "but I started to. Didn't know when you'd be back, but I figured you might want some when you did."

She nods, manages a small smile. "You are absolutely right."

As he goes to turn on the stove, Effie sits and stares at the liquor in his glass. Just a sip might help her get words out, even if they are a mess. The conversation with her mother is fresh in her mind, the words clear, the impressions heavy. She sees her mother's outfit when she closes her eyes, the oranges and yellows too bright, an artificial autumn that Effie would once have found delightful. Still, compared to how they had both dressed little over a year ago, Mitrodora had chosen subtlety over expression, and beside her, Effie had been dull and boring save, perhaps, for her wig.

As the water starts to boil, she runs her fingers through her hair, relishing the feel of it and how it has grown in the past year. It isn't beautiful, despite what Haymitch may say to her, but it's hers, and she wouldn't trade it for even half the comforts of her old life.

Haymitch pours boiling water into Effie's mug, sets the pot in the sink to cool, and takes his seat again. He picks up his glass and drinks.

Effie watches him through the steam rising from her mug.

"She wants me to go back with her."

He snorts, arching his eyebrows as he sets his glass down and reaches for the bottle at the center of the table. For a moment, she thinks he's going to drink right from it, but all he does is fill his glass almost to the brim. "Some request," he says and takes a drink.

She nods, pressing her lips together as she clasps her hands tight in front of her. The only sounds in the room for those few, long seconds are the ice in his glass and the glass on the table when he sets it down again. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, but she doesn't count it – surely he can't hear that.

She takes her mug, the ceramic hot against her skin, and sips, burning her tongue. She winces, feels his gaze on her, but does not put the mug down.

"What did you say to her?" he asks.

"That I would consider it."

"Really," he scoffs. "That's not something to say so lightly."

"No." She blows into her mug, sipping more slowly this time. The tea is still very hot, but she suffers no additional burns.

He holds up his glass, staring at it as if admiring precious stones. Finally, he asks, "So what will you do?"

Inhaling deeply, she sets down her mug. It is the question she has asked herself since her mother had brought up returning in the square, the one that had rendered her speechless upon seeing Haymitch sitting here waiting for her, ready to listen to the story of how many horrors this simple visit brought up against her will. She cannot dawdle any longer.

Meeting his gaze, she gathers her thoughts together and listens to the silence they leave in their wake.

"I'm going to go."


	2. Foundation for a Journey

 

Haymitch opens his mouth to speak, but Effie cuts him off, the weight of her admission hitting her a second too late.

"Only for a visit."

Arching his eyebrows, he nods. "That's different, then."

"Yes. I have no intention of returning for longer than a few days." Even that is enough to summon ghosts that drag their cold fingers over her skin. She flinches, wraps her hands fully around her mug, preferring the immediacy of the heated ceramic to the haunted places that are everywhere and nowhere at once.

"When are you going?"

She shrugs. "My mother wants to go back in a day or two, so I'll have to see." Sighing, she lifts her mug. "My brother's wedding anniversary is in a few days. I suppose I could stay for about a week and see everyone."

Through the steam rising from her tea, she sees Haymitch nod, his eyes unfocused.

She purses her lips and rolls her eyes, waiting a bit longer for him to speak up. When he doesn't, she takes a long drink of tea, the heat of it warming her in the cooler indoor air. Tonight, the weather will start to change, the temperature beginning its gradual descent into what will surely be a frigid winter.

"She asked about you, by the way," she says once she is a third of the way through her tea.

"Your mother?"

Effie nods. "She wants to meet you."

He laughs, sardonic, the sound short-lived.

"I thought as much." Sighing, she shakes her head. "I'll tell her later that you aren't up for it."

"Whoa there, I didn't say that."

Frowning, she fixes a stare on him. "You mean you would want to speak with her?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

"Well— well, for one thing, she still refers to you as 'the victor.' And—" She presses her lips together as she looks about the room, but the countertops and cabinets hold no answers for her, mocking her with stillness in the face of her subdued distress.

"You don't want me to talk to her," he says, a corner of his mouth pulling back in the beginnings of a sly grin.

"I'm just surprised," she finishes finally, setting down her mug with a huff. "You never struck me as the type to socialize of your own volition."

"And you never struck me as shy."

"I'm not!" She pauses and takes a slow, deep breath, then says more calmly, "As I said, I'm simply surprised that you would show interest in meeting my mother, of all people." Really, there are far more interesting people she could think he would want to meet, like Cleopatra Flickerman, who possesses her father's charisma and an unwavering devotion to helping her people transition into the new system of government. Wouldn't he want to ask her how she was able to so quickly change?

"Why are you so opposed to the idea, though?"

He isn't smirking when she looks at him this time, isn't laughing with his eyes or baiting her. By now, she is fluent in the language of his stare, the nuances that dance in the grey of his irises, sometimes like rain clouds, sometimes like steel. What she sees now is the grey of a gentle rain in midsummer, the kind that nurtures the evening primrose bushes outside Katniss' house and cools the humid air.

"Why do you want to speak with her so badly?" she challenges.

He shakes his head. "I asked first."

Sighing, she looks down at her tea again. "Because it would mean so many things to me." She peeks at him from beneath her eyelashes, watches his slow, deliberate nod.

He lifts his glass and leans back in his seat. "Because," he says, meeting her gaze, "if you turned out not to be so bad despite it all, she must've done something right with you. That means that maybe she's not so bad herself."

"She isn't," she protests as she straightens. Drawing in a breath, she adds, "Most of us aren't—weren't. I know that's probably still difficult to believe coming from me, but it's true. At least, that's how I see it." It's how she has had to see it since the rebels sprung her from the Capitol's prison, since she walked into the light for the first time after those terrible months. The people in the street still dressed the way they used to, but she could see past the make-up and wigs and clothes and surgical alterations. They clung to their past so they could keep walking forward, because if they fell to pieces, there would be no putting themselves back together.

Besides, sometimes evil looks like the people it wants to destroy.

Several months ago, Effie had gone with Katniss to the spot in the old fence where Katniss had found freedom.

"I don't really want to go hunting today," Katniss had said as she helped Effie to the other side. "But I want to be out here for a while."

"It's beautiful," Effie remarked, and she meant it. A far cry from the tall buildings and sleek, synthetic structures she had grown up with, everything out in the woods felt alive, even in the silence that surrounded them.

"I thought you might like it."

They went as far as the first hill, Effie's endurance nowhere near as good as Katniss'.

"Feel free to go on without me," Effie had said. "I can find my way back if you'd like to spend the rest of the afternoon alone."

Chuckling, Katniss rolls her eyes. "If I'd wanted that, I would've left without you."

They had taken their lunch then, rolls and cheese and slices of meat from town. Now and again when a particular bird would sing, Katniss identified it.

After the third bird, Effie asked, "Are there any mockingjays around here?"

Katniss nodded, pointing off into the distance, away from District Twelve. "There are a lot of them over there."

Katniss went silent then, like Haymitch did when he remembered things that were neither painful nor pleasant. Effie tried to imagine the place where the mockingjays congregated and sang their songs. It brought back, against her will, thoughts of Katniss singing to the little girl from Eleven who had been her ally in her first Games, and of the symbol of the rebellion: Katniss, the Mockingjay, Panem's unintentional liberator.

"Why did you shoot Coin?"

Katniss tensed, but Effie did not retract her question. That day, her perfect schedule had been disrupted by her very best charge ever, and there must have been an excellent reason for it.

"Because she wasn't above killing children herself," Katniss said after a pause that felt hours long. "Snow was going to die anyway, and soon. But Coin…" She shrugged. "If she had become president, I don't think things would have changed very much. It would have just been the rest of us ganging up on you and yours."

Effie dug her nails into her palms, the possibility too immediate and real despite the fact that all that was left of Coin now were her bones.

"Do you think I shouldn't have?"

Effie shook her head. "I think you did what needed to be done. I think you've always known better than all of us, instinctively, that the right thing is sometimes difficult to accept, let alone do."

Katniss scoffed. "You're making me sound more heroic than I was. I was mad at her when I shot her. I hated her."

"Real heroes aren't sinless saints, Katniss," Effie said, and as she took a breath, she smiled sadly. "And sometimes, even villains have some good in them."

Katniss snorted but did not protest, leaving Effie to her memories.

Even now, when she would like to cite examples to defend her point, Effie bites her tongue. They do not discuss the past, much less the dead, much less those ghosts who Effie once called friends, fellow employees of the cruel villains of the story that the rebels brought to an end. But in the context of her family and their friends, people whose lives had not revolved around the carnage of the Games the way hers had, her assessment remains true, her bias unchanged. She would be a hypocrite if she showed them no sympathy when she has been welcomed into the lives of those she hurt the most.

"So when did she want to talk to me?"

Effie smiles as she comes out from within her thoughts, because for the first time in so long, the present gives her hope.

"In a few hours," she says, standing. "I'll arrange it now."

 

* * *

 

"Now, remember, be polite. If you eat anything, don't speak with your mouth full, and _never_ —"

"Yeah, I know, thanks," Haymitch says, straightening his tie.

Effie presses her lips together and crosses her arms. "She hates being interrupted."

"So that's where you get it from."

She holds back a retort, his brand of jesting not forgotten to her. Too many arguments in their former life had begun over matters of manners. The truth is that he does know, and she does trust him.

"I built a career around this," she had said to him several months ago, as they were getting ready for that year's midsummer festival. "It's habit now."

So even though no one's life depends on his appearance and performance, she looks him over for even the most miniscule imperfection. So far, she has found and snipped a few loose strings, ironed out a wrinkle, and agonized over the state of his beard.

"I still think you should shave," she remarks, holding back a smile when he fixes his shirt sleeve.

"Can't," he tells her. "She won't recognize me without this." He inspects his stubble, his act the perfect pantomime of a Capitol man.

Effie averts her gaze.

"Anything else you want to pick at?"

"No," she says, eyeing his shoes for scratches or stains. "You look respectable." She pauses for a smile. "I'm proud. You really have learned."

"One year with you will do that to anyone."

Rolling her eyes, she grins. "I hope you aren't quite so charming when you speak to her."

"Even more than I am right now." He takes a step back and turns to face her. "This is your last chance to fix anything before I'm out the door."

Tapping her chin with her forefinger, she walks in a slow circle around him. She had made her decision a few minutes ago, but she can certainly pretend to perform an inspection. He knows it, too, and it shows in the slight tilt to his head and the way his weight is shifted to one side.

Coming up to stand in front of him, she frowns and reaches for his tie. It's fine as he has done it, but she fusses with it until it is textbook perfect and camera ready. When she's finished, she pats it, nodding her approval.

"Be nice to her," she whispers, meeting his gaze.

"You say it like I'm incapable of that."

She shakes her head. "I just—" His frown makes her pause, and his half smirk brings a smile to her face. "It's nothing. It's like before. I was nervous for nothing. Everything will be fine."

He nods, pats her shoulder, and heads for the door.

At the window, she watches him go, wrapping her arms about herself to banish the chill that had drifted inside in the few moments it took Haymitch to shut the door. The whole house feels cold now, even when she stands by the stove to watch the water boil. The tea helps, but when the sky begins to grow dark, the silence, more than the chilly air, drives her to pull on a fitted jacket, wrap her head in a warm scarf, and head a few houses down.

Katniss' kitchen door is unlocked, but Effie knocks anyway, announcing her presence before letting herself inside. A year of being neighbors has allowed them all to become used to one another's comings and goings, the sound of their footsteps, and the need for company that pierces through them from time to time.

The rich smell of early winter squash greets her first, followed quickly by Peeta, who is seated on a stool by the stove.

"It's so lovely in here," she says as she goes to stand beside him.

"Did the smell of the soup carry all the way over to your place?"

"Oh, no! I didn't mean it like that," she tells him, lifting a hand to her heart. "Mostly I meant it about the warmth. We haven't yet turned the furnace on. I think I'll have Haymitch do that when he gets back."

He smiles, picking up the wooden spoon by the stove. "Where did he head off to?"

"Town," she says. "He's on a special errand, sort of."

"Sort of?" Peeta repeats, stirring the soup. He lifts the spoon, drips some of it onto the back of his hand, and has a taste. "I hope it involves buying spices. I could really use a pinch of sage."

"Unfortunately, he probably won't have the foresight," she laments with a grin.

She declines the offer of a taste of soup, her stomach not yet recovered from the knots it had tied itself into earlier in the day. He frowns at her, a slight crease of his brow, but he does not the press the matter further.

Before the silence becomes uncomfortable, she clears her throat and says, "I'll be leaving for the Capitol in a few days."

"Really?" he asks, and he quickly shakes his head as if he regrets his quick response.

Effie, of course, lets it pass. "My brother's wedding anniversary is soon. And my mother told me just today that it would be nice for me to visit."

He gives a small smile, and she remembers too late that his family was not as fortunate as hers. She bites her lips to physically halt herself making it worse.

"Will it be a long trip?" he asks, lowering the fire on the stove.

"Oh, no," she answers. "Not at all. Only a week at most. I couldn't stand to be away from you all for longer than that!"

"And the food, right?"

They laugh together just as Katniss comes inside with a bag full of the day's spoils.

"You joining us for dinner?" asks Katniss as she sets the bag on the far side of the sink. She would come off antagonistic if not for the slight smile playing on her lips.

"You two are just terrible, assuming that's the only thing that would bring me here," Effie says, shaking her head. "Here I am, missing you both already, and you are all but driving me out."

"Missing us?"

"She's going to visit her family in a few days."

"Oh." Katniss turns the bag upside down, emptying its contents into the sink. From where Effie is standing, it looks to be mostly roots and berries. "For how long?"

"Not more than a week," Effie answers as Katniss begins to rinse the berries.

"Well, I hope you have a good trip."

"Thank you. I already can't wait to be back here."

Now that she's said it, she realizes the truth of it. All the packing and planning, the people she'll have to see, the memories she'll have to face – and all without the people she has come to trust the most since the rebellion. It will be exhausting, and she'll want to sleep for days afterwards. But at least she will be home again.

"Is Haymitch coming over today, too?" Katniss asks. She is nearly done with her work, a pile of damp roots and berries drying on a towel by the sink as she goes to work on the last handful of them.

"No, I only came here to wait while he's out."

"He's not getting us any sage," Peeta remarks as he stirs the soup again. "But we'll be fine without it today."

Katniss smiles, and Effie laughs despite herself. She will miss out on a week of these moments. Instead she will face scheduled visits and calculated fashion choices. She still sees as much on television and on the tourists that come to District Twelve every so often. Sometimes she sees herself in them, her old self, and marvels at how she used to be. But most times, she feels worlds apart from them. Even when she has thought of her family, returning for a visit has never seriously crossed her mind.

And now here she is, fleeing the packing she should have almost completed by now because what awaits her seems so alien now.

Peeta leaves the soup to simmer and motions for Effie to join him at the table, but they only make it half way there before the phone rings.

"Haymitch must be back," Effie remarks as Katniss goes to answer it.

Sure enough, Katniss rolls her eyes within moments of putting the receiver to her ear. "Yeah, she's here." Sighing, she tells Effie, "He says that it's safe to go back now because he turned on the furnace."

"Oh, good," Effie says, nodding. "Yes, I'll be right there."

Peeta gives her some soup to take with her, and before long, she has made the walk back home.

The house is toasty now, and the kitchen even more so with the stove on and a pot of water set on it. "So thoughtful," she remarks, heading for the table.

Haymitch merely shrugs.

"Look at what Peeta gave us," she tells him as he plucks an unopened bottle of wine from a cabinet.

He snorts. "Ever wonder what it is about those two that makes them think we can't fend for ourselves?"

"Peeta is just very thoughtful." She sets the container on the table and goes to grab bowls and spoons. "You'll notice Katniss didn't share any berries today."

"Wait a day or two," he says, taking a seat at the table. "We'll be swimming in jam."

"Won't that be nice! Fresh bread, fresh jam—it will be wonderful!"

"Yeah, I can't wait." He rolls his eyes, but he cracks half a smile when she hands him a glass.

By then the water has begun to boil, so she prepares her tea while he pours himself some wine. At the table, she spoons some of the soup into her bowl, and he drinks from his glass in silence, watching.

"So," she begins once she is poised to have her first spoonful, "how did it go?"

"My, can that woman _talk_ ," he says, shaking his head.

"A mile a minute."

"She makes you look like a statue."

"Now, that's just unnecessary."

Sighing, he has a sip of wine. Across from him, she tries the soup. It's delicious, just what she has come to expect from Peeta.

She is reaching for her tea when he continues, "Interesting person, your mother."

Effie takes a sip from her still steaming mug. "How so?"

"She's perceptive."

"Yes, and persuasive."

"No kidding. At one point during the conversation I wondered if she wasn't planning to convince you to stay in the Capitol for good after a day or two there."

"I wouldn't," Effie says at once. "She isn't _that_ good."

Haymitch shrugs, frowning. "I don't know, Eff. She's got the guilt trip thing down to a science, and she managed to talk you into going on such short notice."

"That's different."

"Well, either way, I don't think you should go by yourself."

She glares at him as he drains his glass, gripping her spoon so tightly it will surely leave temporary dents in her skin. "I'll have her with me on the trip there."

He reaches for the bottle again and begins to pour himself another glass. "Nah, see, that's part of what bothers me."

Pressing her lips together, she sets her spoon down in her bowl. "So what do you propose I do? Tell her I changed my mind? I can't do that. By now she'll have told everyone I'll be there for Herod's anniversary, and it would be horribly rude if I canceled. Not to mention she probably already bought our tickets back, and—"

"If you let me talk, maybe I can answer your question," he says.

"Fair enough." She clasps her hands together on the table and stares him down, willing him to hurry and tell her already.

"What I propose you do is listen to me. Hold on, I'm not finished. You're right in that she's told everybody you're going. I wouldn't stop you anyway, you know that, and now she knows that too. But to me she said something very interesting."

She waits a moment, but he leaves it at that. "Well?"

He shrugs and leans back in his chair. "She said she wouldn't be opposed to my joining you if that would make it easier."

"Easier?" Her mother must have read her discomfort earlier. "Well, I suppose, but—"

"It's up to you. It'd be easier for me, that's for sure, because then I wouldn't have to wonder what she's saying to you while you're miles away."

"You make her sound so sinister," says Effie, shaking her head. "She isn't. She's just very sincere."

Haymitch has a gulp of wine, shrugging. "It's like I said: I'd rather you didn't go alone, but it's your decision in the end."

Biting her lips, she stares down at her hands. Her mother is a very strong presence, to be sure, and Effie has been away from the Capitol for so long that it will be strange to be back, to say the least. Company would be a great comfort.

"Where would we stay? I had planned to stay at my parents' house."

He wrinkles his nose and shrugs. "We could always rent a place."

"Yes, that's true. It seems you've thought this all through on your own." But that is not what makes her smile as she meets his gaze again. "Goodness. You're worried."

"Marginally concerned," he corrects.

"You're worried I won't come back."

"It'd be a shame if you left. Our neighbors would miss you too much."

"Haymitch."

"What?"

She stands, goes to him, and kisses his cheek. "Thank you," she tells him, straightening. "I'll get started on packing our bags as soon as I'm done eating."

"Don't rush," he says as he tugs on the edge of the scarf on her head. He doesn't bother to suppress the lazy smirk on his face. "We have twenty-four hours."

Not so long ago, that would have sent her into a flurry of activity. But how much this year has done for her that she simply shrugs as she takes her seat and says with a smile, "That's plenty of time."

 

* * *

 

She is nervous, Effie realizes as they step onto the platform in the Capitol two days later. She is the most on edge she has been this entire trip, because now it's real. They are here not for the Games and not on official business. This is a social visit to her family, and she is terrified of how it may end up.

They could hate him, she thinks as Haymitch gets them a car to take them to the tiny apartment he has reserved for them in advance. They could ask him all sorts of embarrassing questions, and it wouldn't be so rude, either, since it will be just family and not the general public present. They could find his behavior or his attire or his walk or his stance unsatisfactory.

Or they could love him, want to see him more often, and her, too.

She doesn't know which scares her most.

To calm herself, she looks out one of the car windows at the people outside. They are still colorful and outlandish, but not as much so as before. There are even some people who are dressed in what most others likely consider drab outfits, the standard fare in most of the districts. It doesn't make her stomach stop twisting, but at least she is able to breathe evenly.

Haymitch pays up front. She only protests once they are upstairs, as they unpack their bags in the small bedroom.

"You could have let me contribute something."

"My pension pays better than your stipend," he states. "End of story."

She purses her lips, but she says no more of it. It's true, after all. With only seven living victors, maintaining their pensions is simple. Now that she isn't working to supplement her stipend, a small mercy on the part of the central government for those who survived in the Capitol's prisons, she is more careful with her spending.

The afternoon flies by as they organize their clothes, which Effie has picked for each day they will be here.

"It's only a week," she had said in the house in Victors Village, "but one must always be prepared."

And he had agreed, though she suspects it had less to do with her logic and more with allowing her to fuss over something other than what may await them in the Capitol.

It's early in the evening when she stands before the full-length mirror in the bathroom and adjusts her skirt. Satisfied, she nods and walks out into the little living room, where Haymitch lies sprawled on the couch, a glass full of brandy in one hand and a remote control in another.

"I'm heading out to get our gift for Herod," Effie tells him, glancing at the television screen. "I take it the weather will behave for me?"

He shrugs. "I thought your mother said she'd take care of getting him something on our behalf."

"She did say so, yes, but it would feel wrong to simply present ourselves at the party empty-handed. People will notice."

Shaking his head, he sighs. "Sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"Yes. It won't be a very fun outing, I'm afraid." She plucks her jacket from the coat hook by the door and shrugs into it. "You'll probably enjoy yourself more here."

"I'll tell you all about the weather across the country when you get back."

"Don't leave out a single detail."

"Cross my heart."

Wrapping a light scarf about her neck, Effie heads for the door. As her fingers wrap around the doorknob, someone knocks, and she jumps back. Lifting a hand to her heart, she looks through the peephole and frowns.

"Did you tell anyone we were going to be here?" she asks Haymitch.

Sitting up, he shakes his head. "Who is it?"

"It's Plutarch Heavensbee."

At once, Haymitch's frown goes from curious to angry. He stands and heads straight for the door.

"What's wrong?" Effie asks, but she steps out of his way regardless.

He wrenches the door open, and she sees Plutarch Heavensbee's smile falter for just a moment.

"Ah, Haymitch! How good to see you here as well!"

"What do you want?" Haymitch demands.

"I was hoping to say hello to Effie, actually. I thought I saw her earlier—you look stunning as usual, so you were hard to miss—"

"What do you want?" Haymitch repeats.

"Haymitch, there's no need to be so rude," Effie says. "It's lovely to see you, Plutarch, though I must admit, I'm surprised you were able to find us. It's still a very big city."

"It's huge," Haymitch adds, his glare still trained on Heavensbee. "You must have a really good reason for seeking us out if you only _thought_ you saw Effie. You could've called the house phone."

"I did, believe me, but when you weren't there, I knew I wasn't seeing things."

"So what do you want?"

" _Haymitch_ ," Effie hisses. Turning to Heavensbee, she clears her throat. "What he means is, what compelled you to come find us?"

"Well," Heavensbee begins, but soon his smile slips away, and he sighs. "I'm afraid Haymitch is right to be suspicious of me, Effie. I have come here with an ulterior motive."

Normally, this would do little to upset her. The time she has allotted to spend shopping for a gift to bring to her brother's party has been cut short as it is, and since this merits an explanation, she may have to be out later than she'd like if she hopes to accomplish her goal today. But given Haymitch's reaction and the nerves she has only just begun to calm, Heavensbee's confession throws her.

"And what would that be?" she prompts, ignoring the smirk Haymitch sends in her direction.

Arching his eyebrows at her, Heavensbee smiles. "I need a favor."


	3. Visits with Ghosts

"What kind of favor?" Effie asks, frowning.

"Actually, Haymitch might be able to help as well," says Heavensbee.

"Whatever it is, count me out," Haymitch says at once.

"It was worth the try," Heavensbee says to himself, shrugging. "Still, I won't give up quite yet."

Haymitch rolls his eyes and steps aside.

Effie looks from Haymitch to Heavensbee. The latter smiles at her.

"I hope you'll at least give me the opportunity to discuss this with you?" he asks.

Effie takes a step forward, physically cutting Haymitch off before he begins, and gestures towards the kitchen area. "All right, but please come inside."

"Thank you," says Heavensbee. He slips inside as Effie shuts the door. By now Haymitch is back on the couch, glass of liquor in hand.

Effie leads Heavensbee to the small table in the eat-in kitchen, sitting only when he declines her offers of food and drink.

"I should begin by saying that even in re-runs, your documentary from last year outperforms nearly every other program we have," Heavensbee begins.

"That's very nice to hear," she remarks. "I don't suppose this means there is a chance for an increase in the payments I receive?"

"If it's money you're worried about, then my proposal does involve paying you."

"Here we go," says Haymitch. He belches, shakes his head, and pours more liquor into his glass.

Effie ignores him. "I wouldn't say I'm worried, no, but please do continue."

"I think it would be interesting to do an update on things. I don't mean another documentary, mind you," Heavensbee adds quickly, cutting her off before she even begins to speak, "but since you're here, I thought perhaps we could bring you in for an interview."

"I—" She shuts her mouth and takes a breath, glances at Haymitch and the program on television, but neither helps. "I don't—I'm not sure what to say."

"People miss you," Heavensbee continues. "They care about you. And they trust you."

At that, she can't help but scoff. "I find that difficult to believe."

"It's true. It's been over a year since anyone heard from you. A short interview would be just the thing."

Haymitch snorts, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Effie sees his grip on his glass tighten.

"It _could_ be helpful, you know," Heavensbee tells him, and he glances at Effie again, smiling.

"Have people actually asked for this?" Even as she asks, she shifts in her seat, clasping her hands together, bringing her crossed ankles in, pulling into herself, as if these small changes will hide her from the world.

"Well, no, but I don't think that should be what helps you make your decision."

"The documentary wasn't even about me, you know. It was about District Twelve. Why should people want to know about me?"

"Because you opened their eyes," says Heavensbee, and even if Haymitch had not snorted just then, Effie would have detected it. This is Heavensbee pitching an idea, swaying investors, driving for an increase in ratings and the bottom line. He may be telling the truth, but his intentions are misplaced.

Effie shakes her head. "No. I'm sorry, but I won't do it. I can't. If you like, I can ask people in the district to see if one or two of them would be open to the possibility, but no more than that, Plutarch."

He sighs, shrugging. "I can't say I'm not disappointed to hear that."

"I've already apologized."

"No need." He smiles his placating, conciliatory grin, and glances at Haymitch as if for approval. He gets none save a sigh "Perhaps a few days may change your mind. Let's keep in touch in regards to this. How does that sound?"

She bites her tongue, forcing herself not to shudder. He is not out to hurt her. He has his selfish reasons, but he means her no harm. Her decision is final, but she knows better than to shut the door on his kindness. After all, last year's documentary had begun as a selfish errand, and it has brought her and others so much good. She is the last person with any right to judge her former employer.

Nodding, she concedes softly, "That sounds fine to me."

"Excellent." He taps the table once as he stands, smiling broadly. "I hope that you can pardon my unannounced intrusion, but I'm sure you understand the need to seize an opportunity when—"

"We get it, Heavensbee," says Haymitch, clearing his throat.

That's all Effie needs to fall back into her rhythm and give their guest a smile. "No harm done, Plutarch. Thank you for stopping by."

Nodding, Heavensbee heads for the door. "I'll leave you to your plans," he says as he turns the doorknob.

Effie waves good-bye, holding her smile until the door shuts behind him. Then, with a sigh, she props her elbows on the table and hides her face in her hands. Slowly, she counts through her breaths, thinking back to the green Meadow in District Twelve, to the evening primrose bushes outside Katniss' house, beautiful sights that are real and present in her mind's eye, so far removed from the cameras and performing that Heavensbee's proposal would entail. Only the sound of Haymitch's footsteps breaks through her focus, the slow, familiar shuffle tugging her gently back to the moment, a present devoid of threats even if only for now.

He sets the bottle on the table, pulling over the chair Heavensbee had sat in. "You all right?" he asks once he has settled in his seat.

Inhaling deeply, she nods. "I wasn't expecting that."

"Doesn't surprise me," he mutters. "It's his job, after all. Secretary of communications."

"I wish he would let it go." The words catch her off-guard, an unplanned admission that has her lifting her head and looking around for spies as in days gone by.

Haymitch gives a quick, sardonic chuckle. "Fame tends to take a while to fade in our good nation."

Pressing her lips together, she sighs and glances at the clock on the kitchen wall.

"How far did he set you back?"

Effie shrugs. "Not terribly far, but I'm not so sure I want to go at all anymore." Because he is right about fame, especially in this city. People will recognize her as she goes, and they will stop her, and they will ask about things she wishes to ignore. That has been one of the greatest gifts Twelve and its people have given her, an implicit respect of her privacy, a tacit agreement to leave the past buried. Here, there never has been such regard for the people's heroes, and if Heavensbee is right about them missing her, then she is bound to be accosted at least once.

"There's always tomorrow," Haymitch remarks.

"Oh, but there are other things I meant to do tomorrow."

"Unless you budgeted your time as tightly as you used to, I'm sure it'll be fine."

"I did, though," she laments, resting her cheek on her palm. She gazes at the table, following the pattern of the wood grain up to the base of the glass bottle he has not touched since he sat with her. "I had planned for a solid two hours of relaxation and tea for us both in the afternoon which will now be cut dreadfully short." She sighs as she glances up at him, the half smirk on his face not lost to her as she goes on. "I suppose I'll have to get to bed early today and start extra early tomorrow to see if any of that time can be salvaged."

"What a tragedy," he remarks, and takes a drink from the bottle.

"Yes," she says. She allows herself a smile at the thought of it, the flagrant disregard for the very things she once worked so diligently to uphold.

* * *

She makes good on her decision, rising early in the morning to make up for the unexpected delay from the day before. Sunlight fills the apartment as she goes about her routine, and when she has eaten and left a pot of coffee for Haymitch, Effie heads out.

The city still glitters in the morning light, and much like before, the streets are nearly empty at this hour, people preferring the warmth of their bed sheets to the chill of a fall morning that surely heralds an early, frigid winter. Diligent shopkeepers have opened their stores before noon, content to begin their work days slowly, waking themselves with the few, quieter customers the early hour brings. In her old life, this had been her most productive time of day. Since moving to District Twelve, it has become her favorite time, filled with the sounds and smells of coffee and breakfast, the songs of the birds, and the occasional meowing of the neighborhood cat.

Most of the stores she remembers are still in business, their shelves still fully stocked, though with a wider array of products. Of course, she thinks as she eyes ceramic figurines locked away in a glass case, this makes sense. Now that the country has opened up to itself, the citizens of the Capitol want the variety they never knew they could have. The quaint fashions of the outer districts, the rustic carvings and curious gadgets, and the intrinsically cultural items fascinate the people here now. As she watches another customer inspect a dress that is distinctly not Capitol, Effie wonders if this is just another passing fad or a sign that the old walls are really being torn down.

It doesn't take her very long to select a gift for her brother and his wife, a small but elegant candle from District Four that takes her there, to one of its pristine beaches, even though she has only ever seen them in pictures and videos. Well, there had been the trip there during the Victory Tour, but that had been strictly business, and she had barely had the time to look out past the people gathered in front of the Justice Building as she watched Katniss and Peeta on the screen in the main hall. Before memories overtake her, she heads back to the apartment, where Haymitch is still sleeping, and leaves the candle, in its bag, on the coffee table.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand as she heads back out, an invisible push guiding her, with no room for deviations, to the next stop of the day. When she passes through the elaborate gateway, she smoothes the curls at the back of her wig and reminds herself, as she sometimes must, that the danger of the past is gone now. Even her ghosts are fewer these days, only the ones who left the deepest impressions coming to her now.

Here, where it seems that time has halted from the moment she walked in, they follow her in a procession that makes the very air colder. They remind her of everything she was, even more than walking through old, familiar streets for the first time in so long.

Tugging her jacket tight against the chilly fall air, she listens to the sound of her boots against the gravel path. Her hands are empty, but her heart overflows with things she isn't sure she'll be able to say, even with only ghosts and gravestones for an audience. She knows the route by heart from when she had first made this pilgrimage, on those first few days when her work had begun to slow and she had needed to do anything but sit at home and allow herself to think.

All around her, she sees offerings of flowers and baubles and candles, some minimal, some excessive. Now and again there are lonely graves, forgotten by their loved ones, or perhaps joined by them wherever people go after they die. That's a much nicer thought, one she wishes the departed with a bow of her head as she passes the markers of their last resting place.

Further up the path are the tombstones of two previous stylists Effie had worked with, cousins from a wealthy family who had lived on the street where Effie's parents' town house still stands. Even before the weeping tribute boy who had shaken the foundation of Effie's convictions, before she had started to see through the pretty fabrics and layers of paint and make-up to the ugliness beneath, she had thought their designs uninspired. Still, they had been good to work with. They had been trampled to death towards the end of the rebellion, a sad but less gruesome death compared to so many others Effie had heard of. She stops before them for a moment, the faded memory of their faces smiling faintly at her as she thinks of them in life.

Cinna and Portia rest in places of honor, their names carved in fine District Two marble by the president's mansion. There, too, are the names of countless other people who deserve her time, yet she chooses the forsaken ones, those who orchestrated terror and painted in blood. She chooses them because they are with her every day, reminding her of who she will never be again. She chooses them because, to her, they were more than the evil they will be remembered for henceforth.

Near the far end of the cemetery is the gently sloping hill where she played along when the mourners talked of such a tragic suicide. The grave stone is bare, left alone by a family that likely fears retribution if they are caught honoring this master of death. Effie does much the same, bringing only herself to stand there as the morning passes. It has been over a year since the last time she did this. She had imagined she would speak the loveliest words once she arrived.

Instead, she stands with her hands clasped together in front of her, with nothing but her memories to offer.

Sniffing, she shuts her eyes tight and murmurs, "I'm sorry." She doesn't know for what. She doesn't think it matters. She has thought of him less since last summer, but the reflections have been gentler, easier. The stabbing pain of misplaced guilt has faded, now a dull ache that frightens her because she isn't sure she can live without the hurt. Healing is no easier than hurting, she decides, and maybe that is what she apologizes for. After all is said and done, Seneca will be but a distant memory, a relic of a life lived in fear.

"I lied so much to you," she says. "I may have even helped kill you. I don't know. But I'm starting to feel alive now, and— I don't think I'll ever come back here once I leave again."

She expects the sky to be cloudy, heralding rain or an early snow shower, but when she opens her eyes, it is perfect, placid blue. Seeking grey, she looks down at the tombstone before which she stands. They had both taken life for granted in the years of the old Capitol. Children came here to die every year, yet they'd had no respect for death. Certainly, the killings had been celebrated, but never honored, no matter what the propaganda proclaimed.

What is it like, she wonders, to suddenly cease to be? She knows what it is to wish for death, to desire nothingness in exchange for release from an ultimately self-inflicted suffering. But what is it to be at the height of one's life and be shot down? And if there is a life beyond this one, do the dead learn the error of their ways and repent? Do they wish that someone had shared with them that kernel of truth that could have freed them when they still had the chance to act?

Of her ghosts, he is the most gentle in the ache he brings, yet it is his memory that unearths the deepest of fears. Her greatest sin is not her participation in the twisted festival of death her people loved. It is her cowardice when confronted with her doubt of its legitimacy.

There will never be enough words for how sorry she is, so she leaves him with a final apology and heads back to the city.

* * *

"You people put liquor in your pastries," Haymitch says to her once she passes the cemetery gates.

Effie stops dead in her tracks, lost between memory and now. Blinking away the stinging in her eyes, she nods and says, "Yes." Turning to face him, she reminds him, "But you've known that since your Games."

He takes a bight out of the chocolate cupcake in his hand and shrugs. "Somehow I manage to forget," he says through a mouthful. She frowns at him, but he continues, "What a waste of perfectly good alcohol. Put it in food, light it on fire, eat it with tiny forks so everyone knows how fancy you are." Finally he swallows. "And you do it for what, the flavor? It's not supposed to taste good in the first place."

"It's something different," she says, shrugging. "I'm far from an expert, but I do know it's… well, it's just different!"

He rolls his eyes as he pops the rest of the cupcake in his mouth, wiping his hand on his pants. It unnerves her, still, because those are fairly new pants, and she would have liked to see them remain mostly clean until the end of the day, but there is much more behind that deliberate, unseemly gesture.

"How did you know I would be here?"

He does her the courtesy of swallowing the cupcake before he tells her, "People are predictable. You've been away from here for a year. That's a long time for someone to be away from home. A lot of your old friends are dead. Where do people go to talk to the dead?" He tilts his head toward the cemetery.

"How clever," she says, glancing at her shoes. They'll need to be cleaned as soon as they get back to the apartment. "I don't suppose—" She presses her lips together, shakes her head, tries again. "That is to say, I can't imagine an apology will do much good now."

He frowns. "An apology for what?"

Looking at the gate, she says, "For not being able to cut them out." She doesn't watch him as he walks to her, a few steps bringing them close enough to speak in hushed voices in the silent company of the dead. "Though really, what more can one do to someone than to— well, not kill them, but—" Squinting, she turns to him. "They're gone. But they aren't. I can't make them go away. I'm sorry."

"They're not going to," he says, and he shuts his eyes, doubtless seeing forty-six faces in their last days of life.

She remembers some of them, too. Twenty-two innocents she ferried to the grave. But they are not the ones she came to remember. "They weren't all bad," she tells him, shutting her eyes as the tears begin to form. She cannot say they didn't know better, but with such thorough conditioning, how much of the fault was theirs?

"I'm not saying anything either way," he says.

"I liked them. Sometimes they frightened me, but—" She opens her eyes and meets his gaze, willing the words to come to her, forcing herself to be brave, like she hadn't been years ago. "Do you know, I think they understood about being afraid. I think—I think if things had been different, then maybe they would have wanted to help, too.

"I never talked with Seneca during the Games. It would have looked terrible, especially with Katniss and Peeta in their first arena, and the change in rules. So in the end—" In the end, there had been no quiet moment where they shared their deepest secrets, the dreams of being a model or creating the ultimate video game. In the end, she'd missed the moment where he had chosen to break the rules and give the people the most extraordinary Hunger Games ever. "I wish I'd been there when he decided to let them both win. I wish, just once, we'd met during the Games, because what if he did it on purpose? What if it wasn't just about the love story? What if he was trying to start something bigger than that, in his own way?"

She covers her mouth with her hands to stop herself from saying the rest. The question swells her tears until they tumble down her cheeks: what if he had been more than just another monster?

"I'm sorry," she says again, because she knows this fancy is too much to ask. "It probably wasn't that. But I just— I was like them once. The difference is that I survived." She sniffs, wiping her cheeks dry.

He is silent for a while, his eyes on some point beyond her shoulder, maybe a memory, maybe an imagined future. "I don't have the answers," he says finally. "All I know is, I know you. If that's what you need to think to help you sleep at night, then think it. The rest can't be undone."

She nods. It's more than she could hope for. "My family may mention him," she says. "They can be indiscreet."

"I expected as much." He shrugs. "What can you do, right?"

"Thank you for being here for this."

"Like I said, I don't trust your mother. That's all it is."

"Of course." She laughs a little, a tiny victory. "Well, in the interest of preparing for the party, we should get back and lay out what we'll wear."

Rolling his eyes, he snorts. "We already know what we're wearing to the party."

"Yes, but what if we change our minds?"

"I don't care if you change your mind, as long as I don't look like I rolled in a puddle of paint."

Taking his elbow, she smiles. "I know a shortcut."

In her childhood, the owner of one of the houses the side street she leads him through would leave the gate to their beautiful garden open. Effie had taken many a walk through the colorful plants and flowers, giggling whenever a butterfly landed on her nose or a bird looked her way.

Those lovely days have long since been lost, so she describes it for Haymitch as they walk past it.

"Once, there was a simple little bluebird perched right on the gate, singing at everyone who walked by."

"It'd make for a better story if now you said the bird attacked people every so often."

"Stop that!"

At this later morning hour, more people are about, shopping and browsing their worries away. For the first time since arriving, Effie feels at ease. Navigating through the city hurts less than it did earlier. Avoiding the main avenues was an excellent idea, because while the old city residents go to their old favorite stores, the newcomers from across the districts are exploring the quieter places she used to love best as a young girl. Change is here, and it is wonderful.

They turn left at the corner, heading towards the city center. "My parents' town house is on the way," she says. "It's just around the next corner."

By the time they reach the next street, she is almost happy. "We moved into their country house after the rebellion," she tells Haymitch as they go right. "And when I moved back to the city, I didn't come this way at all."

"Tell me it's not painted orange and pink," he mutters.

"No, no, they went with lime green instead!"

She's smiling as she looks for it up ahead, just a few houses down. Two stories, lime green with white trim. The lawn is properly groomed, and the windows gleam in the sunlight until, as she stops and stares from half a house away, an egg flies over the front lawn and splatters against the living room window.


	4. Parties and Dissonance

Haymitch steps in front of Effie, placing a hand on her shoulder as another egg hits the front door.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasps, lifting her hands to her mouth. Even from where they stand, the yellow of the yolks is bright against the white paint of the door and the lighter green of the curtains on the other side of the window. It makes an ugly stain, and she’s too busy squashing the urge to wipe the yolks to notice when Haymitch begins to cross the street, the set of his shoulders and the fire in his eyes enough to send the culprits running in different directions.

“Goodness,” she breathes, lowering her trembling hands to her heart as she takes rushed but tiny steps to the front gate of the town house. Her fingers close around the iron bars, and her heartbeat quickens as she remembers taking tea with her mother, aunt, and cousins in the living room, or walking in the front yard with her little parasol. Fuchsia-colored bushes had broken the green of the house and the lawn, and little white flowers arranged in neat clusters amid their leaves had given the entire building a cheery air. In winter, their bronze-colored branches seemed to glow against the snow, and the gate to which she clings now for support had marked the boundary between a private paradise and the rest of their synthetic world.

“They’re gone,” says Haymitch.

Effie jumps as the present moment shifts violently into focus, glancing at him before she turns to stare at the house again. “I don’t have a key.” She takes in a shuddering breath. “I need to clean up this mess before anyone sees it.”

“We can send someone to clean it,” he tells her. “Let’s go back.”

“But it’ll _stain_ ,” she protests, her voice high as her breathing quickens. He is too reasonable to make sense. The world is moving so quickly around her, and she is stuck in place, powerless to break through the gate that shuts her out.

“It’ll wash out,” he says to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s get going now.” With gentle pressure, he pulls her back, but she does not move.

“It’ll _stain_ ,” she repeats, breathy and shrill, her pale knuckles going bone white as she wills the gate to crumble and let her through.

His hold on her shoulders tightens. “Breathe, Eff. Count of four.”

This she does hear, a suggestion given several times over the past year. She counts in her head as she inhales, her gaze fixed on the front door of the town house, and she shuts her eyes as she exhales, picturing it as it was in her youth, pristine and safe. She repeats this twice more before she feels the ground beneath her feet go steady and her heartbeat slow down.

Her fingers ache when she releases the iron bars, her palms red from the friction and pressure. She stares down at them, slowly flexing her fingers again and again, until it hurts too much to continue.

“Let’s head back to the apartment,” Haymitch says, and this time she lets him guide her along for those first few steps.

When they reach the next street, she points them in the right direction, glancing over her shoulder at the lime green house as it disappears from her sight.

“It’ll wash out,” she tells herself softly, looking at her hands again.

He nods, lightening the pressure of his hand against her back as she matches his pace. “Yep.”

“Who would do such a thing?” She furrows her brow, shaking her head. “Why would they do it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her. The building their rented apartment is in comes into view then, and he quickens his pace towards it, his hands on her shoulders again so she keeps pace with him. “It’s done. All that’s left now is to have it cleaned up.”

“I’ve got to tell my parents,” she says once they’re inside. They stop to wait for the elevator, and she meets his gaze for the first time since the house was egged. “They’ll need to know about this. Maybe they’ll even come down to stay in the house for a few days, just to make sure everything is all right.”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Whatever you think will help.”

Pursing her lips, she frowns at him, but she does not ask for more. How can she, when he probably doesn’t know any better than she does what to do in such a situation? It’s enough that he helped her regain composure and chased the offenders away.

The elevator dings when it arrives, and she sighs as they walk into it, the tension leaving her shoulders with the breath. It’s a quiet ride up to their floor, and an even quieter walk to the small rental. Once inside, she heads straight for the phone and dials her parents’ mountain home.

“Oh, goodness,” says Mitrodora, who sounds about as concerned over the matter as if they were discussing the shapes of clouds in the sky. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to do than send someone to take care of it. Thank you for letting me know, dear.”

“Aren’t you upset?” Effie asks. “Someone threw eggs at our house!”

“It’s happened to others,” her mother answers. Effie imagines her shrugging, the movement as light as her voice sounds. “It was bound to happen to us eventually. They’re just random acts of vandalism, dear. No need to worry.”

Frowning, Effie sighs. Just how much has she missed out on since she moved to District Twelve? “Well, if you say so.”

“Don’t worry, dearest. Just enjoy the rest of your day. Go for a walk, have a good dinner, buy yourself a new dress for tomorrow—why, the city is yours!”

Somehow, Effie doubts that is the case, but she appreciates the sentiment regardless. “Thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, yes. Now, I must go see how some of the final preparations are going. Remember that we’ll send someone to get you at around noon. Don’t eat too much at lunch. There will be enough here for a full two meals, and you know how rude it is to let anything go to waste. Well, until tomorrow!”

“Of course. Good-bye.”

She sighs heavily as she hangs up the phone, then goes to sit at the table, slouching in her chair. Cued by her silence, Haymitch emerges from the bedroom and comes into the eat-in kitchen in search of food. While he makes himself a bowl of oatmeal, Effie straightens and takes off her wig. By the time she’s done, he has seated himself across the table from her with a steaming bowl topped with cream and mixed berries.

“Well,” she says after he’s had a few spoonfuls, “that’s that. She’s sending someone to clean up. Do you know, she isn’t bothered at all. I would have expected her to be distressed.” Like Effie had been, though more controlled. She leaves that out, though. “She said it’s nothing new.”

Haymitch shrugs. “Makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Sure. Government just changed hands after a full-blown war, and for the first time in nearly forever, people are able to travel between districts, and even to here. A lot of people have legitimate reasons for still being hurt.” He pauses, shrugging again. “Egging a house that, to them, represents how things used to be is a pretty tame way to let out some of that resentment.”

Crossing her arms, Effie grasps her elbows. “I wasn’t expecting perfect harmony, but—” She takes a breath and glances down at the table. “Well, I wasn’t expecting outright hostility, either.” At the very least, she had hoped for understanding, or a willingness to see that she and her people weren’t _all_ monsters. With time, they would come to understand and outgrow their old beliefs and assumptions. She certainly had, and she had been one of the old way’s most public proponents. “I suppose that makes me very ignorant,” she says to the wood grain, so quietly that even she can barely hear the words.

“It makes you the same as most anyone else.”

She looks up, half expecting him to be angry with her, to finally have had enough of her, the way she sometimes does when she looks in the mirror. But he has not said it so sharply to hurt her. His gaze is hard, his eyes like steel, but he is looking past her at something she cannot see.

“Everybody wants a perfect world. No one’s going to _get_ it, but they still hope for it.” Taking a slow breath, he stirs his oatmeal, staring at the specter behind her. “It helps you keep going. We didn’t have that, before. The most we could hope for was that, if you had kids, they didn’t get reaped, and that their kids didn’t get reaped, and so on.”

“It’ll always be there, won’t it,” she says, forcing herself not to look away from him when he meets her gaze. “When people see us, they’ll see Capitol people, not just people. Not that we haven’t earned it, but—” She leaves it at that, shrugging as she looks at the table again.

Sighing heavily, he shakes his head. “I really don’t know. Maybe in a few generations, people will move on.”

Shutting her eyes, she whispers swiftly, as if in prayer, “As long as they remember never to go back to how it was.”

“That’s the idea,” he tells her, and he sounds exhausted and so much older than he is. She does not open her eyes to look at him, only nods along as he says, “That’s the goal.”

* * *

Despite the day’s stresses and the memories they bring up, Effie gets a full night’s sleep. The next day dawns partly cloudy, perfect for tea and warm rolls.  It’s a slow, easy morning, but she sticks to her schedule, beginning to get dressed hours before the time of their departure.

The ritual of putting herself together for a Capitol party comes to her easily despite the time away, too many years doing just this burning it into her mind and muscles for the rest of her life. Even with considerably less supplies, she manages a layered effect that renders her skin nearly flawless. If she wanted, she could achieve a porcelain appearance, but she prefers now the soft look of natural skin. Make-up is no longer for painting on a perfect mask.

With her wig and outfit in view, she brushes silvery grey powder on her eyelids and glossy, icy blue on her lips. She is the first breath of winter, a herald of the coming cold and the warm delights only a few months away. Her wig is light blue to match her best dress, a layered garment of silver and white and pale blue that she had brought to Twelve with her in case of a particularly special occasion. The last thing she had expected was to be wearing it here, in her old city, for an all too familiar sort of party. Still, the preparation would have been the same, and she would still have stared at her reflection as she does now, remembering a time when she would have wanted snowflake eyelashes and rosier cheeks to complete the look.

As she is, she may be too close to those days for comfort, but she has come too far to stay locked in a room until it’s time to board the train to Twelve. She goes carefully about putting her make-up away, keeping an eye on the time. Once everything is straightened out, she takes a few deep breaths and heads out to the kitchen to wait.

It takes Haymitch only a few minutes to get ready. When he is dressed and mostly put together, stands in the middle of the kitchen and rolls his eyes while she inspects him for any missed details.

“It all looks fine to me.” She steps back for one final look and nods her approval.

He smirks. “You’ve trained me well.”

“We’ll see about that.” She puts her hands on her hips, arching her eyebrows and failing miserably at keeping back a grin. “There is still an entire party ahead of us, after all.”

Just then, their driver calls from the phone in the lobby. Effie grabs their gift, and after one last look at the little apartment, they grab their coats and gift and head out to begin their journey.

It’s a half hour from the city to the country house. They spend most of it in silence, taking in the scenery, Haymitch for the first time ever and Effie for the first time in what feels about that long. The leaves are turn\ing, but they are not quite at their fullest. The oranges, yellows, and reds must climb just a little higher up the mountains for those beautiful days to begin.

“That was the most popular time for vacations,” Effie tells Haymitch. “At least half the city would go out and enjoy the colors.” She pauses, giving a wry smile. “Then there’d be fall-inspired outfits here and there, all terribly unoriginal.”

He snorts, shaking his head, giving the slightest of smiles as he turns to look out the window again.

They get dropped off at the front door of the house with a promise from the driver that he’ll return whenever they like. As the car rolls away, Effie takes a breath to steady herself. All the courage she’d tried to give herself on the way here is quickly evaporating into the chillier mountain air.

“Oh, I hope these colors are all right,” she murmurs, gazing at her dress. Glancing at Haymitch, she gestures to her face. “Does it seem like too much?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Bit late to ask that now, isn’t it?”

“ _Haymitch_.”

“It’s fine.” When she glares, he adds, “I mean it. Now come on, it’s getting colder by the second out here.”

Taking a deep breath, she rings the doorbell, and within moments, Mitrodora Trinket sweeps them inside the house.

“I’m just _delighted_ to see you!” she trills as they hang their coats on one of the hooks in the little entry hall. “And you both look _wonderful_. Oh, this is going to be such a lovely party!”

“We’re happy to be here,” Effie tells her.

“Come on now, follow me. Herod and Maris are right this way.”

They follow her down the hall and into the dining room, where the guests stand in clusters here and there. In true form, Mitrodora announces their arrival, then indicates the long table in the center of the room. “Help yourselves to whatever you like, and don’t be shy! There is plenty to go around.”

Effie nods, smiling until her mother has gone back to mingling, before she whispers to Haymitch, “And there aren’t nearly as many people here as there would normally be.”

Haymitch nods as he pours himself coffee from a pumpkin-shaped pot, his slight frown the only indication that he knows the fate of at least half of those absent. She watches, waiting for him to prepare the coffee to his satisfaction before taking his elbow and gently pulling him along with her through the crowd.

Herod, dressed in a tailored vest over a white shirt and brown slacks, looks up into the crowd after straightening his cravat. His eyes meet Effie’s, and he smiles, holding out a hand to her as soon as she is close enough to embrace.

“Happy anniversary,” Effie tells him, smiling. He smells of cinnamon and bark, just like the last time she saw him.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says once he pulls away. “I thought we’d lost you to Twelve forever.”

Even knowing to expect such casual inconsideration doesn’t lessen the sting of those words. She forces a smile. “Your faith in me is astounding.” Giving a slight laugh, she lifts up the bag with her gift. “We brought you something.”

“Thank you.” Herod takes it, casting his gaze around the room again. “Maris likes to open these. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Of course I did. It would be thoughtless not to.”

“You’re just like Mother that way.” Herod grins, shaking his head. “And this is the illustrious Haymitch Abernathy. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

Haymitch shakes Herod’s outstretched hand, taking a sip of coffee as he does. “Same. Nice cravat.”

Effie almost glares at him, but Herod seems to miss the edge of forced politeness in Haymitch’s tone, merely thanking him for the compliment. Just as Effie comes up with something to keep the conversation going, Maris emerges from behind a little group of people.

How Effie missed her in her dress of fall leaf colors is a mystery. To Maris’s credit, the seasonal motif of her dress is pretty, going from summer green near her shoulders and melting into the shades of changing leaves gradually along the length of the garment. She floats to them on red-to-brown shoes, as graceful as Effie has ever seen her.

“Our celebrities are here!” Maris says with a wide, gleaming grin.

Effie laughs, shutting her eyes in feigned joy, and gestures to the bag in Herod’s hand. “We come bearing gifts.”

“Oh, how thoughtful!” She takes it and peeks inside, gasping with delight. “It’s _beautiful_! Look, darling. Isn’t it lovely?”

“Yes,” answers Herod, his smile subdued but no less sincere. “It’ll look lovely on the mantle come summertime.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Holding the bag close, Maris sighs. “And how are you two doing? How is that lovely baby girl from the documentary?”

“Very healthy,” Effie answers. “And happy, I would say, what with the whole district giving her and her parents gifts now and again.”

“And we’re fine as well,” Haymitch supplies.

Maris veritably coos. “That’s so wonderful to hear. In the last year, I’ve been worried you’d grow bored. You were always so busy, Effie, and District Twelve—well, now that you’re not filming, what do you do, I wonder?”

“Oh, lots of things.” Effie frowns, struggling to hold on to her smile. “Visit people, keep the house tidy—I really love that, and it’s so much bigger than my old apartment.” No one looks very impressed, so she adds quickly, “Peeta and I share recipes sometimes.”

Herod smiles. “Peeta Mellark?”

Effie nods.

“I’m so glad to hear he’s doing well after—well.” Maris clears her throat. “Anyway. It’s good of you to come all the way out here. It’s been such a difficult year for us.”

“Has it?” Haymitch asks, a slight edge to his voice. But like in his Games, his smile bewitches his audience, and they don’t catch the challenge in his tone. Effie does, but he goes on before she can stop him. “Do tell.”

“Well, after all the fighting, we had to wait for weeks to be allowed back into our house.” Shaking her head at the memory, Maris sighs. “It was a dreadful mess. Clean-up took _so_ long, and every other week, it seems, someone devises something to throw at it. Just a few days ago it was—” Her voice catches, and she glances away. “Excuse me a moment, will you? I see someone I haven’t spoken to yet.” She gives them a small smile, touches Herod’s arm, and heads off.

Effie lets go a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. “What happened?”

Herod shrugs, watching Maris disappear into another circle of people. “Writing on the wall—literally. Someone took a paintbrush to the stone fence and wrote things on it that I would never repeat in front of my delicate sister.”

Effie purses her lips. “I’m hardly that. And I’m older than you, so don’t try the ‘big brother’ bit just because you’re an inch taller.”

“Older by minutes, I must remind you. In any case, it upset Maris so much that we came up here that evening and have stayed since. The cleaners were done with the mess yesterday, but we’ll wait a few more days. The atmosphere here has been good to us.”

“It’s lovely this time of year,” Effie remarks. She glances at Haymitch, who holds her gaze for a moment before draining his cup of coffee. He holds it up to them, motions to the table where he first got it, and wordlessly goes for a refill. Turning to Herod, Effie sighs. “We went to see the town house yesterday. We were just in time to see it egged.”

“That’s mostly harmless, at least,” Herod says, his voice low.

“Does it really happen that often?”

“No, but—” He presses his lips together, glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s enough, isn’t it? That it happens at all is enough. Do you know, Maris wants to move out here, but I’m worried no one will buy the house because it belongs to us.”

“What does it being yours have to do with it?”

Herod meets her gaze, holding it long enough for her to read them as they had when they were children. In those days, they would wear each other’s clothes to see how long it took for someone to discover their switch, and with just a glance, they knew what stories to tell to keep the game going for hours. Now they are almost worlds apart, but she can see it there, the hesitation, the truth he holds that would hurt her if he told it. She swallows hard at the lump in her throat and takes a slow, deep breath, willing herself to keep it together.

Blinking rapidly, she smiles. “Where’s Father? It’s too early for him to have bowed out.”

Her brother shrugs, piecing together a smile. “In the next room. He doesn’t do so well with crowds anymore. Not that this is much of one, but I suppose after so long living here with just Mother and a cook, even this is too much.”

“I can imagine.”

Haymitch comes back from the table then, his cup full again. “Got intercepted by an old fan,” he says, giving a wry grin. “Always a good time.”

Herod grins at him. “People are funny, aren’t they?” Nodding at them both, he says, “I should go see how Maris is faring with the Marigolds.”

They are silent as he goes, Haymitch sipping from his cup. “He’s not so bad,” he remarks, nodding after him. “And he looks a hell of a lot like you for a fraternal twin.”

“We used to play games because of that when we were little. Then we grew up.” She shrugs and meets his gaze. “It’s too early to want to leave, isn’t it?”

“Afraid so.” He lifts his cup to her and drinks.

Rolling her eyes, she chuckles. “Come on. We’ll follow my father’s lead and go into the next room. You’ll like him. He’s much quieter than everyone else, and he likes card games.”

As they start to toward the door, Haymitch asks, “Does he gamble?”

“No, but he’s very good at those games anyway.”

“Shame. I was thinking we could win enough for some souvenirs.”

She rolls her eyes as they go the few steps down the hall to the study.  The door is ajar, so she pushes it open after a light knock.

“My girl,” her father says the moment he sees her. He stands, leaving his game of solitaire on the desk by the bookshelf to go to her for a gentle hug. “And a guest, I see.”

“Yes,” she says, smiling. The familiar room and her father’s warmth set her at ease at once. Here, she can forget about vandals and their methods. “This is Haymitch.”

“Thales Trinket,” says Effie’s father, shaking Haymitch’s hand. “Tell me, do you play cards?”

* * *

Thales loses all but two games over the course of the afternoon, which earns Haymitch both laughter and approval. Effie would gladly have stayed in the study with them, but she as well as Thales understands the need to make appearances. Luckily, even the most inappropriate conversations are nothing two seasoned, former television personalities can’t handle, especially when Mitrodora is involved and silencing the others with all the grace of a person of her standing.

As the evening wears on, people begin to go, and while Effie and Haymitch wait for their ride to the city, Effie stops her mother in the hall.

“This won’t take long, I promise,” Effie assures her, voice low as she pulls her mother off to one side. “I was just wondering—well, about the eggs yesterday morning, and the paint at Herod’s house—”

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” Mitrodora interrupts. “Both houses are clean now.”

Effie frowns. “Maris said it happens regularly.”

Sighing, Mitrodora smoothes the shimmery amber curls on the side of her wig. “It’s really nothing at all,” she says, forcing a smile as she glances at the entrance to the dining room.

Effie follows her mother’s gaze and said softly, “It doesn’t sound that way. Maris was very upset.”

“Oh, you know how excitable she can be.” Mitrodora chuckles, but there is no mirth in the sound.

“No more so than I used to be.”

That sobers Mitrodora at once. “Effie—” She sighs, takes her daughter’s hands, and looks straight into her eyes. “It really is nothing, I promise you. Yes, it happens rather frequently, but what’s a bit of paint or some old food or rocks or firecrackers? Nothing, dearest. It’s nothing. We’re used to it, and we’re all here, aren’t we?” She lifts a hand to Effie’s cheek. “You’re here, my princess.”

Effie bites her lips. It’s true how lucky they are, and it’s true that whatever they have lost is immaterial. “But maybe if I weren’t— Because Herod said—”

“No. I don’t care what anyone says,” Mitrodora whispers. “I don’t care what they believe. I would endure far worse than this if it’s the price for having you with us.”

Laughter drifts in from the dining room, and Mitrodora gives Effie a smile before inhaling deeply, straightening, and going to be a proper hostess.

Her departure leaves a chill in Effie’s bones; she crosses her arms to ward it off, but a shiver still creeps up her back. Inhaling sharply, she heads for the front door and slips into her coat, then goes to the study to bid her father and her nephews, who have joined him, good-bye. He and Haymitch finish playing the card game in progress and tell each other farewell, and on their way back to the door, Mitrodora thanks them for visiting and wishes them safe travels.

Their driver hasn’t arrived yet, but Effie steps outside anyway. The still, quiet evening calms her nerves, and the solidity of Haymitch’s presence grounds her after a night of floating from conversation to conversation.

She tries to sleep on the ride back, but the best she can manage is to keep her eyes shut and think about the mountains in winter, silent and sleeping beneath a heavy blanket of snow. It’s better, she tells herself, to remember those quiet slopes, far better than allowing the day’s discoveries to sink their fangs into her when she has nowhere to hide.

Back in the apartment, when she is ready for bed, she sits with the pillows propped up behind her, staring at her hands. Haymitch comes in from his shower a few minutes later, hair a mess, no doubt, but she doesn’t look up to see.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he remarks, slipping under the covers on his side of the bed.

“I’m wired,” she says. “And I’m worried.” Curling her fingers into loose fists, she leans her head back against the wall. “My brother’s house, and my parents’ town house—” Frowning, she sighs. “I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know what to think.”

Now settled comfortably beneath the sheets, he shakes his head and shrugs. “Nothing you really can do, is there?”

“There must be something. It’s not a coincidence that both the houses are in my family.” She looks down at her hands again, and the exhaustion of the day hits her all at once. Her shoulders droop, and her voice loses its strength. “Herod nearly said as much.”

“Coincidence or not, do you think there is anything you can do, realistically, to stop it?”

She knows the answer at once, but she holds onto it, shutting her eyes because he knows it, too, and he is just as resigned to the gravity of it. A year ago, she had found a way to combat powerlessness, small though the hope for success had been. But things are different now. She can think of no argument that will dissuade the vandals, not when she is certain of her fault in their pain.

“No,” she says finally, and she shuts off the lamp on her bedside table. In the dark, she straightens her pillows and lies down, staring up at the ceiling as she waits for her eyes to adjust. “But I won’t stop wishing there were.”

“No one ever does,” he says, the weight of a lifetime of suffering in the words.

Effie shuts her eyes against the memories of when she almost had.

* * *

Their train pulls into the station right on time, when the midday sun begins to have some effect against the season’s growing chill. Clutching her ticket in her hand, Effie watches the other passengers start for it at the first boarding call. When the second rolls out through the PA system, she and Haymitch follow the next wave of people.

At the door to one of the train cars, she stops. Haymitch loads his bag onto the car and stands aside, gesturing for her to go ahead before him.

“After you,” he prompts her when she doesn’t move, but she shakes her head.

“I have to stay here.” Inhaling deeply, she meets his gaze. “I can’t just leave my family to deal with this by themselves.”

“They won’t be angry if you go,” he tells her.

“No, but I’ll feel terrible for walking away.” Shaking her head, she says, “You go ahead. I’ll—I’ll go back as soon as I can.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but she smiles anyway and heads back out to the street, hovering by the entrance to the station. There, she hears the final boarding call, the train’s whistle, and the departure announcement mingling with the train itself as it begins its journey east.

With a shuddery sigh, she starts towards the nearest shop in the hopes of finding a phone to borrow. On the way, she composes what she’ll say, rehearsing the words in her head until they sound just right. The litany drowns out the sounds of the city when she stops at a corner. She glances left, then right, and nearly jumps at the sight of those grey eyes with the pain of lifetimes in their depths.

“You stayed,” she says, half question, half statement.

Haymitch shrugs. “I don’t trust your mother.”

For the first time in days, Effie smiles and means it.


	5. The Unraveling

A quick call to the country house settles the matter of lodgings: Mitrodora has copies of the key to the town house sent to them right away. Effie and Haymitch wait for them by the lime green house, which is as clean as it's ever been, much to Effie's relief.

Within half an hour, they receive the copies and head inside, where the colors on the walls are more subdued but still cheerful. For a house only visited weekly by cleaners, it is well-furnished and decorated, with vases of varying sizes in every room, each filled with flowers of different colors, all picked to match the room.

Effie gives Haymitch a quick tour from the ground floor up, ending at the room that used to be hers. There, she lines her suitcases up by the chest of drawers against a wall and turns to face the door, where he still stands in the threshold. "It's nice, isn't it?" She gestures to the room with its lavender walls. She is plain and dull in comparison, her white dress with its butterfly-print fabric in fall colors falling short of the girl who once played at being a princess within these walls. "The whole house, I mean. Though I suppose if you aren't a fan of flowers, it might be a bit much."

He shrugs. "I wouldn't expect anything else from your family."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Smiling, she kneels beside her luggage and begins to unpack the first suitcase. "I stayed here with my mother during Katniss's trial. Afterwards, she thought it would be better to be away from the city, so we stayed in the country house with my father. They had gone there when things started getting difficult for them during the rebellion, you see, and my mother came back when I— for those first weeks after I was discharged from the hospital."

She works at a steady pace, filling the bottom drawer of the chest to her left, placing her clothes inside with great care. From the corner of her eye, she sees him walk into the room with his bag and take a seat on the violet ottoman before her vanity.

"It was much nicer to be there, in the country, after everything," she continues as she reaches for the next skirt. "Well, it was at first. It was so quiet, and there was so little to do. I had stopped taking most of Plutarch's calls. How terrible would it be to go back to working in television? I thought I'd lose it the moment I saw a camera! I'd been away from them too long, you know, after the trial.

"But, of course, staying away could only help for so long. I kept dreaming—" She stops, gripping a pair of hose halfway to their spot in the drawer, as she takes a slow, measured breath. "The next time Plutarch called, I asked him for a job, and he came through. There was _so much_ to do. It was wonderful. Not perfect, of course, and not a cure, but it was better than those weeks in the country house." She sniffs, glancing up at the top drawer, so high up from where she sits. "I stayed here until I found a place of my own."

And here, in the city, she had begun to put herself back together, seeing her doctor, visiting with Peeta, and working herself to the point of exhaustion. She is almost as tired now, having told the story of those strange, in-between days where she had not been convinced she had survived.

"You can take the upper drawers," she says, the spell breaking, its shards poised to cut through her if she lets her guard down. "And the closet in the hall. This one's still full of dresses, I'm afraid."

"I can live out of the suitcase," he tells her.

"Nonsense. I'll do it if you don't want to. It'll give me something to fuss over."

"I think you missed a room or two on the way here." Standing, he crosses to where she sits and holds out his hand. "Assuming they aren't top secret, we could get the rest of the tour done before you decide if you really want to dive into my suitcase."

"Mine are worse," she protests, but she leaves it at that, taking his hand. He pulls her up out of her task and all those memories, and at once her head starts to clear. She thinks back on their route through the house and remembers, at once, what rooms he means. "One is just the stairs to the attic. But the other one—"

Smiling, she gives his hand a little tug. "I want to show you something."

She leads him down the stairs and past the living room to a room just at the end of the hall. Pausing a moment, she glances over her shoulder at him and opens the door.

Books fill the shelves set into the far wall, with a set of comfortable-looking armchairs and a couch in the space before them. Closer to the windows is a small desk of dark brown wood, with a high-backed chair tucked against it. The seat at the foot of the bay windows features large, fluffy cushions, and off to one side, across from the desk, is a polished, gleaming harp.

Effie walks farther into the room, waiting for Haymitch to take in the details. Even for her, after so long, the familiar places seem new, and the safety and wholeness of her younger self seems accessible.

"Sunny," he says, nodding once. "And a lot less flowery than the rest of the house."

"Yes. This is where my brother and I would do our homework, and where we'd spend our Saturday mornings." She gives a small smile, turning toward the windows. "Of course, sometimes it was nicer when it rained."

"Who played?"

"I did." She glances at him, then follows his gaze to the harp. "One day, when I was eight, I saw one at a family friend's house and ran my fingers over the strings, and I fell in love with the sound. I started lessons the next week."

"How long did you play?"

"Nine years."

He walks to her, staring at the instrument as if he can see the memories as clearly as she can, the ones of her growing into fancier dresses and more difficult pieces, of the informal recitals she would have for her parents and her brother, and of the real recitals that left her breathless and shaking.

"Do you still remember how?" he asks, turning his head to face her.

"You never really forget." She heads towards the instrument, reaching out to touch the smooth, sloping neck when she is near enough. "I've lost some of it. I couldn't possibly play at the level I used to, but I can still manage if I try." Even as she feels heat rise up her neck, she looks over her shoulder at him and asks, "Would you like to hear a piece?"

His eyes widen for just a moment at her offering this so freely, and it's enough to set her at ease. She is already seated on the stool by the harp when he gives a mumbled "sure," proper posture and hand positions coming to her as if she'd had a lesson just the day before.

The strings feel familiar beneath her fingers, and the quick notes she produces – it's been maintained, every string in tune – take her at once back to her years as a harpist and forward to an imagined future, one where her parents have kept the instrument in tune in the hopes that their grandchildren will take an interest in music, or perhaps expecting that one day their daughter would return for a visit and want to go back to those places with them one song at a time.

Taking a breath, her fingers settle themselves over the first strings almost of their own accord, and with a nod to herself, she begins to play.

The piece begins lightly enough, with notes that speak of sunlight and subdued cheer. The melody repeats, and soon Effie is lost in the imagined scenes it brings to her mind, of a still garden where the quietness around her is the only freedom she has in this pretty cage for a small princess. Her fingers flow over and along the strings, and just when she feels she cannot bear the sharp sadness of it, as it ends, the piece gives her the notes with which to tell all who would listen of the loneliness and misery of having everything and being allowed none of it.

As the notes fade into the room, Effie wonders if any of those things would be enough to fill her heart, and it's several long seconds before she brings her hands to her lap and remembers where she is and who is here with her.

Haymitch nods at the harp, at the specter of the music clinging to its strings and only just going silent in her mind. "That's a sad piece for a little girl."

Over twenty years and a bloody rebellion since those simpler days, the music is the same, but its meaning is different, its bittersweet denouement more haunting now than her younger self had ever imagined. "It makes perfect sense to me now. We were obsessed with suffering and carnage. We took such joy in it. Why shouldn't we have taught our children to be entertained by the pain of others?" And to become the subject of that false empathy, the sadness that brings people joy because it touches their hardened hearts in some twisted way.

"True enough," he murmurs.

She meets his gaze, anchoring herself further in the present. It may be imperfect, but it is better than the lies she used to swear by. "I stopped because I hated recitals. They made me so nervous, sometimes even sick to my stomach." Twisting her lips, she glances away and stands. "Then I went on to work in television and pick who got to die each year, and none of that made me so ill." It had taken years of watching frightened children die for the shine of the Games to fade, for her to see them as human and worth caring for as anyone else in her city. "Go figure."

Sighing, she turns her back to the harp. "Shall we get something to eat?"

He shakes his head, giving a mirthless laugh. "Sure," he says, and he starts towards the kitchen, leaving behind a silence as heavy as her guilt.

 

* * *

 

They take their meal in silence in the dining room, where the afternoon sunlight comes in through the tall, wide windows to warm them. Outside, the wind picks up, the neighbors' trees creaking and swaying in the gusts that blow by. Effie imagines being outside right now, the chill in the wind burning her face as she rushes to find shelter. Surely this will keep the vandals away.

"So what are you going to do?" asks Haymitch.

Looking up from her meal, she finds him scraping the last of the soup from his bowl with such focus that she questions if she heard him speak at all. She waits, mulling over her response, until he glances up at her in a silent prompt.

She shrugs. "I don't know. I hadn't thought much past coming to stay here."

"Well, that's a start."

"Oh, don't. It's not so simple." When he says nothing, she purses her lips and narrows her eyes. "What would _you_ do, then?"

"I don't know. I just find it funny how it's like something Katniss would do."

"Then it's not so bad to begin with, is it?"

He shrugs. "Hell of a lot safer, I'll give you that much."

Rolling her eyes, she smiles. "I miss her and Peeta." The longer it takes her to figure out what to do, the longer it will be until she can return and pick up the life she's built with them and Haymitch.

"Better start thinking, then." He gives her half a grin, then stands, takes his bowl, and heads for the kitchen.

As she finishes her soup, she gathers her thoughts together, separates what she knows from what she must find out. Her family has been targeted by people whose anger is well-founded, and this has been going on for some time. How long, though, and how frequently, and who else has come home to sights such as the one Effie witnessed? Surely this would have made the news, at least in the beginning, and if not, then it would have been whispered among the circles she used to frequent. She will find the answers to her questions with little trouble.

But what will she do once she has them?

For now, the only answer she can find is silence.

Shaking her head, she stands and goes to wash her bowl. Haymitch turns from the sink and holds out his hand to her just as she walks in.

"That's all right." She gives him a small smile. "I'll do it."

"My hands are already wet," he insists, and she passes him the empty bowl.

For a moment, she listens to the water running, imagines it eroding at her confusion to reveal the right course of action. Outside, a powerful gust makes the windows creek, and she forgets her would-be mental exercise, smiling instead at the warmth and shelter this house affords them.

"I made some progress," she tells Haymitch, moving so she stands off to his side, leaning against the counter.

"Yeah? Do tell."

She waits for him to shut off the tap, then says, "I'm going to talk to Plutarch."

Frowning, he shakes the excess water from the bowl. "Why?"

"Because I'm sure he knows when people's houses started getting vandalized."

"Probably." Setting the bowl on the rack to dry, he faces her. "What will knowing do for you?"

"Well, for starters, it'll tell me how long my family has been keeping this from me. And beyond that, well, I imagine he'll have his own opinion."

He snorts. "I bet."

"You know, I understand that his dedication to his work can be grating from time to time—all right, often. But he means well, he always has. He's part of why I'm still even alive."

The words leave her without time for thought, stealing her breath away for a few, eternal seconds. When she can breathe again, Effie glances at the dishes as he nods.

"It's easy to forget, sometimes," he says, when she meets his gaze, "what with the way things started to settle when the dust did, how everyone picked up what was left of their lives and just—went on living."

She nods, thinking of the people in this city who still dress as before because they don't know what else to do. She could have been like them, could have remained in her old world and doomed herself to days and nights filled by ghosts and despair. Heavensbee helped save her from certain death, and last year, he saved her from the misery and guilt that would have eaten away at her until she remained an empty shell.

"Remember that he gave me the means to go back to District Twelve in the first place," she says to Haymitch. "I need to remember that, too."

"I'll drink to that." He gives her half a smirk. "If only I knew where you're hiding the liquor in this house."

Rolling her eyes, she chuckles. "As if you can't search for yourself."

"I thought you said it's rude to search other people's houses for drinks."

"The glasses are in the cupboard over the sink," she tells him as she passes him on her way to the liquor cabinet in the next room.

The rest of the evening goes by as it might in his house in Twelve, with long lulls between conversations about nothing as he downs most of the bottle she has dug out for them. She goes upstairs before him, leaving him with the silence he still sometimes needs as she goes to make ready for tomorrow. The day's ensemble takes a mere ten minutes to put together, all warm fabrics and cheery colors to lighten up the somber air that mid-autumn brings to the city.

Then, the exhaustion of a day of last-minute decisions to stay and becoming reacquainted with her childhood home drape themselves over her, a warm, soothing cloak she can only hope to remove by shutting off the lights and climbing into bed. She settles into her pillow with a smile on her face.

 

* * *

 

She dreams of Cinna in the few moments before she wakes, and the image of him and the sound of his voice stay with her as she listens to the morning's silence. Keeping her eyes shut, she memorizes how he had looked, understated and stunning as he always did, telling her about the gloves he was going to give Octavia for her birthday.

When she starts to forget if she really dreamt these minute details, Effie gets out of bed and starts her day, managing with great success to go between her bedroom and the shower several times without waking Haymitch.

Downstairs, she makes coffee and grabs more soup cans from the pantry. As her breakfast heats up, she takes a deep breath and calls Heavensbee.

"So you've decided to stay to do me that favor, have you?" he asks after they've greeted one another.

"No," she answers, "I haven't changed my mind, but I would like to speak with you, if you have the time."

"Of course," he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "Can you be here in thirty minutes?"

"So soon! But yes, I can. I'll see you then."

She makes quick work of having her soup and cleaning up. Haymitch may not be awake yet, but she still leaves him coffee before she goes to grab her coat from the little closet by the front door. Standing in the front hall, she pauses to listen for footsteps overhead. She hears none, though, so she heads out.

The wind has died down, but it has left a brisk chill in the air. Effie hunches into her coat and quickens her pace, the way to Capitol TV headquarters easy and familiar. At the building, she is ushered in at once, and despite all the people who stop her to say hello, she manages to make it to Heavensbee's office on the top floor on time.

They sit by the window, leaving his desk for more formal talks. "It didn't sound as if you wanted to talk business."

She nods. "Correct. I was hoping you could help me with a—a bit of research." Lifting her hand to decline an offer of tea, she goes on, "It's about my family."

Frowning, he is silent for a moment. "I'm not sure if I'll be of any help, but I'll try."

"That's all I ask." Clasping her hands together, she takes a breath. "I saw my parents' town house get egged only a few days ago." She pauses, taking in his wince. "My mother told me this isn't the first time something like this has happened." He takes a breath as if to answer, but when none comes, she asks, "Is that true?"

He hesitates, and that is answer enough for this question, but she will not rush him. She will play a game of words and silences, like so many she had witnessed in other circles and more dangerous times.

"Yes," he answers when her words have long since disappeared into the air. "I'm afraid it is."

"She made it seem as if it's been true for quite a while. When did it start? That is, if you heard at all. Forgive me if I'm assuming incorrectly that you would have."

"No, you're right, I did hear." His words come out a slow as his nod, as if he is seeking all the time he can to answer the inquiries hidden in her statements. If she weren't so concerned, she would be proud of her skill. "It was a little over a year ago, I believe, that I first heard."

"Goodness, that's longer than I thought."

"It seems like not very long at all."

The lightness with which he greeted her has left his voice, rendering him serious and distant, so much like the Gamemaker he used to be. Effie feels her resolve start to crumble, her strategy disintegrate. She inhales, counting to five, imagining the windows of her lovely childhood home covered in unspeakable things, in paint and rotten food and worse. Haymitch's words on the matter, of resentment and easy revenge, come back to her.

Shuddering, she presses her fingernails into her palms. "Has it happened to anyone else?"

"Once or twice, we've arrived in the morning to find the doors and the front steps of this building vandalized, but it hasn't happened in some time."

"My brother's house had something written on it. He wouldn't tell me what."

Heavensbee nods, lifting a hand to his chin as he gazes out the window. Effie glances outside, sees that a light wind has begun to blow and that the blue sky is hidden behind light grey clouds.

"Do you think it will snow?" she asks him.

He drops his hand back to the armrest but keeps his eyes on the clouds. "No, I don't think it will. We've had early snowstorms before, but it seems like we'll only be in for a cold snap this week."

His tone, low and steady, makes the hairs at the back of her neck stand and her shoulders tense. He knows something, but he does not want to share it. After everything that's happened, both during and since the rebellion, does he not trust her? Does he think she cannot bear to hear whatever he may have to tell her? He has told her so much worse before, and he has seen her with tubes coming out of her in two or three places as she lies half awake in a hospital bed, a mask feeding her oxygen, her skin mottled with purple and yellow and green. Surely he does not still think of her that way, frail and helpless. Surely he realizes that, after everything she has endured, she can survive whatever he fears giving her.

"Plutarch," she says, and she holds her breath for those five long seconds it takes him to meet her gaze. "What is it?"

"I don't want to tell you anything you already know."

"I don't know anything. No one's told me a thing besides what I've already said. Please, Plutarch. I need to know if there's something I can do."

Shaking his head, he leans back in his seat, the strain of so many years of hard work showing in the frown that creases his brow and the way he can't seem to keep his eyes open. "I don't know that there is anything you can do. I think you may have already done all you can."

"All I can? How can I have possibly done a single thing if this still keeps happening? I haven't done anything at all."

He grimaces, glancing out the window again for, perhaps, another moment to gather his thoughts. Turning to her again, he says, "I'm sorry, Effie. I should have told you. We should have discussed this. But you were so excited. You seemed happy for the first time in so long that I couldn't bring myself to say anything."

"For goodness' sake, what are you talking about?" When, in the time that this has begun to happen to her family, has she been in such high spirits? She has been in District Twelve since the documentary premiered, and that was over a year ago. He has not seen her since before she left for the premiere.

The premiere. Her breath catches, her eyes wide as she connects the dots. The documentary, born of a desire to find solace with her old team, had filled her to the brim with life and purpose. It had done so much good that she had not stopped to consider what harm it could do, except in ensuring that she had the permission of the people in the district to bring a crew to film for those weeks in the summer.

Over a year ago, the documentary had premiered. Over a year ago, she had left the Capitol. Over a year ago, her family had begun to be the focus of the lingering resentment against the oppression of the past, of the injustice she had once represented.

Haymitch is right. It does make sense. If she is not here to endure their anger, then the people she loves are a good enough target.

"Goodness," she breathes, lifting her hands to her face. Her fingers are frigid, her hands trembling. "I—" She drops her hands to her heart, both to warm them and to be sure her heart is still beating.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "You were never meant to find out. It should all fade away with time, after all."

She shakes her head, hearing but not understanding him. "I did this. I did this to them."

"No. You meant the best."

"But it's still my fault."

"It isn't." He sighs, shaking his head. "This is why we never wanted you to know."

With a sharp, shuddery breath, the world comes back into focus. Fixing her gaze on him, she asks, "'We'? Who else knew?"

He shifts in his seat, straightening again. "Your family, of course. I knew, and people you used to work with who would have had no reason to call you anyway." His voice wavers as he finishes the thought, and he glances at his office door and at the tall lamp by her seat.

She grips her hands tighter, a prompt forming on her tongue.

But he does not need it. Looking right at her, he tells her, "And Haymitch knew, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My reference for the piece Effie plays in the first scene is called "The Princess's Lonely Harp" and can be heard here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-fPR_AElHk


	6. Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After so long, this is complete. My thanks to pretty much everyone for their patience, to everyone who listened to my tales of woe regarding this whole journey, and to everyone who's read this far. I hope you enjoy it. This was different and difficult for me in many ways, but I will not bore you with that. All mistakes are my own, and I apologize whole-heartedly for them. Thank you for your time and your kindness.

 

If not for her hands over her heart, if not for the rapid beating that reminds her that she is, in fact, alive, she would have sworn that time had stopped. Of course Haymitch knew. Of course, because he has always known everything, and he has never seen it fit to tell her.

Standing, Effie releases her hands. "Excuse me, I need to be going." Heavensbee stands as well, as if he has something more to say to her, but he says nothing. She digs deep inside herself and finds the strength to give Heavensbee a small, shaky smile. "Thank you."

He walks her to the door and holds it open for her, silent save for when she pauses in front of him and bids him a proper good-bye.

"Don't be hard on him," he says, holding her gaze. "He means well. He always has."

Hearing her own words again feels like a blow to the stomach, but she forces herself to stay composed, keeping a smile on her face as she nods.

Outside, it has only gotten colder. The air nips at her cheeks as she hurries back to the town house, and by the time she arrives, her nose is runny, and her cheeks are a bright pink. She waits a few moments before taking off her coat, feeling the warmth of the air inside the house chip away at the chill that clings to her, willing it to melt the ice that has covered her heart at what Heavensbee has told her.

When she is warm enough, she hangs her coat and heads for the kitchen to make tea. Haymitch has left traces of his presence here not long ago, the sink still wet from recent use, a mug drying on the rack nearby. She sets the water to boil while she raids the cupboards for her favorite tea, Heavensbee's confession ringing in her ears in the heavy silence. They never wanted her to know, her family and Haymitch and Heavensbee. They never wanted her to find out that, for all the good the documentary had done, her work had caused trouble for people she loves.

Guilt, that familiar, constant companion of her heart, sinks its claws into her until tears sting her eyes, but she forces them back. Now is not the time to sort through her grief and the ugly facts of a past she can never undo. No, now is for her to unmask the last of this lie and stare the truth in the eyes. She is not afraid. She has, after all, survived hell itself.

Steaming mug in hand, she goes to the library, but only the harp stands there, a patient sentinel awaiting her touch. Turning her back on it, she walks down the hall and up the stairs, and there, in her old room with its lavender walls, he sits on the window seat, grasping a bottle by the neck as he stares out the window.

Her grip on her mug tightens, the heat soothing her still cold fingers. She takes a breath, holds it a moment, and says, "I dreamt about Cinna last night."

He snorts, arching his eyebrows. "We never did find him. It's only his name in the memorial."

"How dreadful." She shudders, fighting back memories and gruesome possibilities. "He was lovely, in my dream. Just the way he used to be."

Haymitch nods, his gaze still on some fixed, distant point, and Effie's eyes begin to fill with tears again.

"I know about what I did," she tells him. "I know about what I caused."

Nodding, he says, "I imagined Heavensbee'd tell you."

"He didn't have to. It was more what he _wasn't_ saying."

He sighs, but the only shift in his gaze is to look down at the empty space next to him, the rest of the window seat.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The question comes out as a breathy, tremulous whisper as she gives in to her tears, letting them fall, warm upon her cheeks. "I would rather have heard it from you."

"What could you have done to stop it if you'd known?"

"That isn't the point." She sets her mug on her vanity and stays there a moment, her back to him as she steadies her thoughts. Then, turning, grasping the edge of the vanity, she says, "I could have—well, I could've—I don't know. I could've been here for my family, or at least I could've apologized to them."

Gripping the bottle in his hand tighter, he meets her gaze and tells her, "You didn't do anything to th—"

" _I_ did this. _I_ made this happen to them. With _my_ idea, _my_ camera crew, _my_ work."

"You didn't know this would happen."

"But it did."

"And it still isn't your fault."

"But—"

"It could've still happened without the documentary," he interrupts, gesturing out the window. "Lot of hurt people out there, people who'll never bother with Capitol people because of the Games and Snow and everything they'll never forget. Maybe it wouldn't have happened to your family specifically, but I'd bet anything it would've been someone else's family, some other neighborhood. You are not the cause of this."

"No, I just gave them a target." Sniffing, she brushes tears off her cheeks. He doesn't answer, unable to contest the truth of her statement. It hushes her, too, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts. With a deep breath, she looks at him, at the storm cloud grey eyes she has come to trust so completely over the course of a year and more. "I wish you had told me," she says, shaking her head. "I wish I'd known."

He frowns, doubtless recalling the same moment she is, that conversation the summer before last in which he'd told her the part he'd played, indirect or otherwise, in her arrest. The memory cuts her, reopening old wounds as it creates fresh ones that steal her breath away long enough for him to shrug and say, as before, "I thought you'd be better off if you didn't know."

She lifts a hand to her mouth as tears tumble down her cheeks again, moving it away only when she has taken a shaky breath. This is not the same as then, because this time she is the one who has caused pain, but at its core, the heart of the matter has not changed.

"I can't—" She shakes her head, grasping the fabric of her long skirt. "I just don't understand. After everything that's happened—the Games, the rebellion, this year—after all of that, didn't any of you think I could handle knowing about this? I've done worse things than this. I made my living taking children to be killed, remember? So how does this become something I'd be better off not knowing?"

"You punish yourself for everything you've done," he answers, his voice more level than hers, but no stronger, "for everything you can't change. It wouldn't have been any different with this."

"Maybe I _can_ change this."

"How? By doing another documentary? Interviewing like Heavensbee asked you to do last week?" He shakes his head. "Don't you think that would just aggravate the situation? It would, by the way, because you'd just be bringing it up all over again, drawing attention to what got them started in the first place."

"Still." She pauses, takes a breath, and lets it out on a count of ten, tapping a finger against her thigh with every number because she is sure she'd lose count otherwise. "How long ago did he tell you?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer, glancing outside again, though she can't imagine for what. "He didn't. Your mother told me."

"Oh." She gives a short bark of a laugh and crosses her arms. If she stands like this long enough, if she grips her elbows tightly enough and closes her eyes, will she disappear? Will it take her someplace where none of this has happened?

No, the world is still the same when she opens her eyes again. Haymitch is still standing by the window with a bottle in his hand, and Effie feels alone in a vast, unfriendly sea.

The next word is hers, she guesses, so she says with not half the strength she wishes she could inject into her voice, "And here I'd thought you were meeting her for the first time last week."

He meets her gaze, a quip hiding in his eyes. She wants to hear it because it's what she's gotten used to this year, just one thing that's helped her feel alive again. But this is not the time for it, and they both know it, so he says, "The first time in person."

"So when you said you couldn't trust her, you meant you thought she'd tell me."

He nods.

"She didn't."

"She told you it'd been going on."

"But not why."

"Effie, you are not the reason this is happening."

"But I'm part of it," she says, gesturing to her wig, to the room they're in. Sighing, she feels the strength to stay standing leave her, so she sits on her bed and shakes her head. "Nothing's going to change that. No one will believe that I've changed." Meeting his eyes again, she says, "And none of you is ever going to trust me enough to tell me what's going on."

He holds her gaze for only a moment before he looks away again, out the window at the cloudy sky that she still thinks threatens snow.

In his silence, she thinks of District Twelve, wonders if it's any warmer there than it was last week, or if fall has finally woven itself into the air to prepare the way for winter. Last year there had been a day with such heavy snowfall that they'd had to stay in, waiting out the storm, and she'd had content herself with apologizing to Peeta over the phone for having to miss their baking date. She'd wanted to learn one of his recipes, and he'd been happy to share. It hadn't been her fault, he'd said to her, because she can't control the weather.

She can't control anything, not even her own life. All those years of service to evil had meant nothing. She'd been as expendable as the next person, moved from one place to the next like a piece in a game, and no spectator—even those who would claim to be on her side—had been able or willing to help.

She shivers, a sharp loneliness cutting through her like one of yesterday's cold gusts. Before the rebellion, she had felt this way because the only ones who knew the truth were the ones forcing their will upon her. Now, with freedom in every breath, she feels that awful solitude because she's been played again, only this time it's by the people who saved her life.

"I need to go." Standing, she glances about the room. She spots her cup of tea on the dresser and almost laughs. She should have known she wouldn't have any of it. Well, it will still be there when she's back.

"It might snow," he says, sitting again at the window seat.

"I won't be long." She almost adds that she need not tell him, that it might be better for him if he doesn't know, but she does not feel up to childish games or petty verbal arguments, especially not over serious matters.

Whatever distant thing it is that caught his attention earlier has won his gaze again, and as she watches him, her resolve falters. Of course, they all want her to not be hurt anymore, and they must have meant the best when they hid the facts from her. It's cold out, so she could just go downstairs to think, pacing if she feels the need to move. But then, perhaps the chill in the air will clear her thoughts, and it will show her that she can endure hardships and inconveniences, that this is nothing compared to what was, that she can handle being told something she's done has caused someone pain.

Yes, she can do that, and her eyes fill with tears again because no one seems to think the same. This physical distance she'll create on her walk won't feel as wide as knowing they do not trust her.

Sniffing, she heads out into the hall, down the stairs, and to the front door. She pulls her coat back on, wraps a scarf around her neck for good measure, and leaves, her pace swift in every movement, every step. The air hurries her along, the breeze picking up again, biting at her cheeks as she approaches the front gate. Ducking her face into her scarf, she undoes the lock and steps out onto the sidewalk, taking up her quick pace again as soon as she shuts the gate.

The key tucked safely in her pocket, she takes the first left around the block. From there, she turns this way and that at random, unsure of where to go, aware only that she must put the distrust of so many far, far behind her.

She isn't sure for how long she walks. Gusts become stronger as she goes, and the air feels colder, and there are fewer and fewer people outside with every corner she turns. Finally she stops just off the City Circle, this old, familiar place where her people gawked at costumed children and started to bet on which of them would survive. She is complicit in their deaths, but the ache of this has been dulled by time, acceptance, and distance. She does not deny the past, nor does she dwell on it. Instead she looks forward at what she can do to keep this from ever happening again, even if all that is, is to stay far away in District Twelve and help rebuild the place she helped destroy.

Maybe that's what everyone who knows her wants for her as well. Maybe that's why they kept the truth from her. And yet, her mother must have known that asking her to come to her brother's anniversary party would culminate in her discovering what her work had caused, and Haymitch must have known, and they must have discussed that when they talked last week. Had they decided this would be the best way to find out, with family nearby to talk with when the moment came? Had they somehow orchestrated this so that, should she find out, she would already be here, witnessing her family's resilience, more likely to believe that all will be well in time?

Hurt though she is, she has run out of anger. She does not hate her parents for their lies, Heavensbee for his deception, Haymitch for his act. The latter two have a rebel's mind, where secrets keep people alive, and the former only want to protect their child. She cannot fault them for their good intentions.

With a deep breath of frigid air, she turns and takes the quickest route to the town house. The journey feels much shorter despite the growing cold and the near absolute solitude she finds on the streets. That feeling, being one of the only people outside, sends an altogether different chill through her, and she hurries through the last few blocks and as she turns onto the lane to her parents' house.

She is at the gate when she hears the scrape of two, maybe three pairs of boots along the pavement. It's slow and leisurely, a sound she could not hear before over the wind, her breathing, and her own footsteps on the way here. Her hands freeze just as she's turned the key in the lock, the click of it opening doing little to slow the rapid beating of her heart.

She isn't fast enough to get herself inside with the gate shut and locked again before they reach her, and they are coming for her, whoever they are. She can see them out of the corner of her eye, three men in fancy coats, two of them at least a head taller than her. They could knock her over with a flick of a finger, pin her to a wall all too easily. Her best bet is to stay still, she thinks, and to hold on to the gate, because no one will hear her over the wind if she screams, and if they did, who would leave the warmth and safety of their home to help her when they could be hurt or worse for their trouble?

That is, if she could even find her voice in her state, tense all over, frozen to the spot.

"Look, the traitor has returned," says one of them, his voice warping on the diphthong. A Capitol man, surely, perhaps one like Heavensbee, who had spent years plotting to overthrow Snow before the deed was done.

"Twice one," says another, an unfamiliar twist to his vowels – District Three, she thinks, if only to take her mind off the impossible situation she is in as they come to a stop just a few feet to her side. "Paints herself a friend of the small and then puts them on big screens for everyone to see."

"They never change," says the third, who sounds much closer to her than he is.

A gust pushes a few lavender curls onto her face. She sees more than feels them on her skin, a shadowy shape in the corner of her vision, and she flinches, her mind's eye warning her of a far more sinister alternative. The men laugh at her, and she feels a stinging start in her eyes. They know she is aware of them, and they know she will break at just the slightest show of force.

The first takes a step closer, his gaze burning into her. She wills herself to stay still. They've decided by now what they want to do to her, surely, and part of it must be to watch her, helpless and afraid in their presence. Defiance will only set them off, if they are anything like the guards in the underground prison, but reticence will make them seek a reaction.

No matter how she looks at it, she will not come out of this unscathed, so perhaps the most illogical thing to do is the best course of action. Besides, at least this time, she is breathing fresh air, and her view of the sky is unobstructed.

Before the brief flash of courage leaves her, she says, "Then what can I do? How can I— Is there anything that can make things better?"

She can't tell which one laughs at her first or which one joins him, only that their voices cut her heart like the wind stings her cheeks. Trembling, she holds her breath and fights in vain to hold back tears, which fall swift and scalding down her cheeks.

"What can you do?" hisses the one closest to her. " _Disappear_."

Effie murmurs, "If only I could," and grips the gate tighter, the truth of her admission loosing the shivering sobs she has fought since leaving Heavensbee's office. No, longer still, back through time and past the rebellion, all her years reaping children, the day she got her job. In this moment, when she is releasing the gate and jerking away from the men's approach, she can't remember whether she was ever happy at all, or if somehow she had known that true happiness could not be felt in her world as it was, where her high heels stood on the backs of people like Katniss and Peeta and Haymitch and countless others whose name she'll never know.

How will it begin this time, the violence that is sure to ensue? She ducks her head to hide her face, at least, for however long she can, and shuts her eyes tight. She imagines the men moving, raising their arms, flesh and bone that will feel like steel and stone to her. They even sound that way, strong and rough, like the hinges of the gate that had denied her safety only moments ago.

She braces herself for the first blow, but it never comes. Instead, the gate swings in a gust, hinges creaking, and she opens her eyes to find Haymitch standing between her and the three strangers.

The first man from before—his eyes are electric green, Effie sees now that she looks at him—sneers as he shifts his attention to Haymitch. "I can't believe what I'm seeing."

"Walk away," Haymitch tells them all. He is poised to strike. From behind, he looks almost like the boy who survived where forty-seven other children didn't.

The third, who stands farthest from them now, shakes his head. " _You_? Defending _her_?" He laughs, spiteful and disappointed.

"After everything— After all the years of reaping innocent kids—" The second man pauses, smirking. "Well, she must have better uses now."

In the moment it takes Effie's jaw to drop, Haymitch swings for the man closest to him. The dull thud of his fist connecting with the other man's cheek seems to echo in the frigid air, snapping her out of the grasp of shock.

She reaches out to touch Haymitch's arm, to stop him before this gets worse, but the man with the electric green eyes steps forward, lunging for Haymitch. Effie backs away, gasping as she presses herself against the tall stone fence.

But Haymitch is fast, his instincts as sharp as in his youth because he has never left the arena. She knows as much from when he wakes fighting, how he is, in his more sober moments, aware of every little thing, and even in the haze of liquor's embrace he knows if something in his surroundings has changed.

The altercation ends swiftly, with two of the others down and clutching some part of their body while the third holds his head, blood on his fingers, and leans against the stone fence.

Haymitch looks over his shoulder at her, and Effie begins to breathe again, but the moment does not last. The man still on his feet regains his balance and throws a punch, striking Haymitch in the temple. He falls at Effie's feet, bleeding from a cut where he was struck, and she kneels beside him, a prayer dying in her throat so that it sounds no different from the cries she gives when she wakes from her nightmares.

Pressing her hand to his wound, she wills him to opens his eyes. Beyond him, the men are getting to their feet, shuffling away as the wind gusts from behind her as if to urge them along.

"What—no!" she tells them, her voice shaking and loud. "You have to help him." They do not listen, only glancing at her before they gain speed and leave at a jog, and she calls after them, "Send someone! I can't—"

The wind dies down.

She shuts her eyes, trembling. "I can't help him on my own."

* * *

Haymitch stirs moments after the men have gone, insisting he can walk by himself even as he leans heavily on Effie all the way inside the house. She does not shush him when he protests, does not scold him when he touches her cheek with bloodied fingers, wiping away at the tear marks she had all but forgotten about.

Once he is on the couch, she flies into action, because this is where she excels, in creating order out of chaos. She files quickly through her options at every juncture, phones Heavensbee to mobilize the right people and keep the wrong ones away, grabs a clean towel and makes a temporary ice pack for the swelling bump on Haymitch's head.

Soon someone comes for them in a grey car and takes them to a city hospital, ignoring both Haymitch's insistence that he is fine and Effie's assertion that this is standard protocol when someone is hit in the head hard enough to pass out even if only for a few seconds. Somehow, she manages to appear composed despite his obvious discomfort and the fresh memory of the incident.

At the hospital, Haymitch is whisked away for examination, and he has the sense not to protest right away.

Alone again, Effie paces in the waiting room, gripping her elbows in her hands to chase away a chill that refuses to release her. Her shoulders tense the longer the silence stretches. The clock on the wall becomes her enemy, telling her that time is passing too slowly for her rapid thoughts, and she glares at it the sixth time she looks at it, following the second hand as she breathes to its rhythm, until the sound of the sliding doors pulls her out of her forced trance and demands her attention.

"Effie," Plutarch says at the precise moment she turns toward him. The doors slide shut behind him, and she stands still as he comes to her. "I've suppressed word of this as far as I'm able, but I don't control every lens there is."

She nods, and some of the strength that has kept her standing tall slips away from her. Swallowing, she murmurs, "Thank you," and lowers her gaze. "And thank you for—everything. For your help, and for coming here, and—"

"I couldn't not." He reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I can't help but feel somewhat responsible in this."

"You aren't," she says. "I am, really. I shouldn't have—oh, it doesn't matter now, does it." When he doesn't respond, she meets his gaze, and it's as if they are not here because of a scuffle on the street. It is almost two years prior, and this waiting room is full almost to capacity, and she has only just begun to put on weight, not yet discharged but permitted to walk around with only her wrist band for jewelry, a hospital gown for a dress, and a cloth cap for a hat. And Heavensbee is here to see her, to tell her what must be done in preparation for the televised execution, and to remind her that there are those who are happy that she is alive.

She had read compassion in his eyes in those days, and she sees it now, too, and she knows she will never be able to repay him for this and so much more.

"Your mother will be here soon," he says, eyes still on hers.

Shutting her eyes, she nods. "Thank you."

"Come, sit," she hears him say, and he guides her to a nearby chair, pulling his hand back once she is seated and he is next to her. "There's blood on your face. Are you all right?"

"Oh—" She brushes her cheek with her fingers, feeling the dried blood on her skin. "Yes, I'm fine. That's from—I should go wash it off." But she makes no move to stand, instead sighing as she meets his gaze. "You don't have to stay. I'm sure you're busy."

He shakes his head. "It's nothing that can't wait." Sighing, he adds, "Simple entertainment can always wait."

Likely, he means that as a sort of penance for his old work, even if it was done to cover his labor performed for the rebel cause. Likely, he remembers all those lives lost as vividly as she does, or even more so, since, despite the involvement of so many in the death procession, he was one of the few who got to swing the axe. She understands this, but she also hears in the statement all the new reasons to feel guilt, the selfish quest that has brought pain to the people she holds dear.

"See how much damage we can still do with it," she half asks, half states, her eyes unfocused as she remembers what brought them here. "That's all our kind knows how to do, isn't it? That's all you and I have ever been good at."

Perhaps that negates the ultimate good that he helped create, but if he is anything like her, if he remembers his childhood and the comforts of his life in their splendorous city, then he will understand.

"Yes." The word is little more than a breath, but it's all the confirmation Effie needs. When he continues, his voice is louder, but no less sincere, drawing her attention to him and out from those too-clear memories. "Don't regret your work, though, your last project. I gave it the green light because I believed in it, in its spirit, in your vision. I would do it again even if I had known then what would happen now."

"Of course," she says with not a smidgen of reproach, "because it isn't your family."

"Nonetheless," he says. "Aren't they all here, though? Aren't they happy that you're all right, that you've found where you need to be?"

"I wish I could be in two places at once, though."

"Don't so many of us? In different places, in different times, with different people." He sighs and shifts his gaze to something past her. "But for now, at least we can grasp at happiness in this imperfect world. That can be enough."

"It has to be," she murmurs, and when Heavensbee smiles at what she had thought was a memory or an imagined future, she turns to look over her shoulder and stands at the sight of Mitrodora, amber curls and dress windswept.

"Oh, I came as quickly as I could." She sweeps Effie into a quick hug, then takes Heavensbee's hand for a quick, tight squeeze in one of her own. "I'm so glad I caught you before you left. I couldn't bear it if you left without my thanking you."

"It was no trouble," he says, shaking his head. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go and see if I can't keep people away for longer."

He smiles at them both, holding Effie's gaze for a moment as he passes them. Effie watches him until he is out of sight.

"Any news so far?" asks Mitrodora, taking a seat.

Effie sighs and sits as well. "It hasn't been very long. I'm sure they're still performing tests."

"Yes, of course—Effie, is that blood on your cheek?"

"Yes." She tries to brush some off, but it has dried too well to come off without water. "It's nothing. I wasn't hurt. I'll wash it off later."

Mitrodora purses her lips. "All right."

Sighing again, Effie feels her shoulders droop and her posture slacken. In her mother's presence, this seems terribly out of place, but she cannot bring herself to rectify the problem. There are more important things to worry about than whether or not her mother is lamenting how Effie carries herself. "Father let you come here by yourself?"

"Yes. Well…" Mitrodora gives her head a little shake. "Your father hasn't set foot inside the city proper since… oh, the rebellion ended and we kept coming here to see how you were doing? One of those visits was his last."

"Oh?" She knows some of this story, of how, for a long while, no one but doctors and nurses were allowed to see her, at first at all, later for minutes at a time. She knows her parents came anyway. This detail, though, she has never heard, never inferred from what she witnessed. It seems strange now that she never did, because she remembers now only her mother's face when she woke one morning after all the surgeries had been done, and only Mitrodora and Herod on the day she was discharged.

Mitrodora nods. "I think it's—that he can't bear the thought that this place and all it was wound up—" Pursing her lips, she blinks furiously for a few seconds. "The people we trusted did you such harm. The people _you_ trusted. After everything you'd done, they—" She gives a sharp sigh. "I don't push him to come here anymore. It's different for everyone, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I try to understand it," Mitrodora continues, and she is speaking to herself as much as she is to Effie. She is frowning, focusing on something Effie cannot see, and her voice is loud enough for only the two of them to hear. "I try because—well, we're all so far away from each other now. We live in the country, your brother and Maris and the children live in the city, and you live out in District Twelve now, and I have to try because, if it were left to me, we'd all live together and never be apart."

Gazing down at her hands, Effie whispers, "I don't know if I could do that. It has nothing to do with anyone, I just—"

"No, I know that we all must be where we need to be, whatever that means for each of us," Mitrodora says. "You and your father need peace and quiet and people who understand them. And I think Herod needs the hustle and bustle of the new city to keep himself from falling apart on Maris and the boys."

"What do _you_ need?" The answer may hurt, but Effie wants to know. She wants to know how her family has been hurting and how lonely her mother has been since Effie packed her bags for good, preferring a district of coal dust over the nation's glittering capital.

Mitrodora looks up and lifts a hand to Effie's cheek. "This lovely face," she breathes. "Your father taking his morning coffee in front of the television as if nothing at all has changed and talking about what _has_ changed. Your brother calling every week to see how we are. Your letters telling us about how beautiful Twelve is and how lovely the people there are.

"All I need," she continues, even as a blink frees a few tears to run down her cheeks, "is to know that everyone is happy, or at least close to it. Especially you. I miss you so much, Effie, but I know you need those victors of yours, those three wonderful souls. And I think they need you, too."

Sniffing, smiling, Effie nods. "I hope so." Covering her mother's hand with her own, she sighs. This, at least, is one piece of guilt she can let go. It will come back to her later, she knows, and try to weave itself back into the tightly wound ball that is everything she fights every day, but she will remember this moment, these kind words, and she will be free of it more easily from this moment forward.

"Excuse me."

Effie and her mother turn to face the young man whose hair matches the blue of his nurse's garb. "You can go see him now. We're awaiting final results, but as of now, everything looks fine."

Effie sighs, the tension in her shoulders lifting at once.

"Go on," says Mitrodora, patting Effie's shoulder. "I'll be fine here."

"Thank you," Effie tells her, and she kisses her mother's cheeks and follows the nurse down the hall.

* * *

A few corridors down, the nurse gestures to another waiting room, this smaller than the one by the entrance. It is empty save for Haymitch, who sits in one of the chairs, leaning his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. Effie thanks the nurse and goes to him at once, taking the seat next to him as she looks his face over.

"I'm so glad," she says, taking in the patch placed over the cut he'd received. "The nurse said you seem fine."

"I _am_ ," Haymitch says, arching the eyebrow farthest from the cut on his face. "Nobody listens to me, though. Maybe they'll listen to you."

"They're only doing their job, and that's what I'll encourage them to keep doing."

"I overheard someone say something about keeping me overnight."

"Isn't that about standard, though?"

"You told them to keep me overnight, didn't you?"

Satisfied with the relatively unscathed state of the rest of him, she sighs. "I haven't told them anything. I trust their judgment." She pauses a moment, pressing her lips together as she considers her next thought, and says, "And maybe you should trust mine."

He winces, straightening as he lifts a hand to rub his forehead. Surely it's aching still, unless they've given him something strong enough. But even so, the pulsing ache must remain, a fresh memory of the few hours before now and everything they entail.

"Yeah," he says, nodding once.

"I'm not angry anymore," she offers. "Hurt, yes, but I'll get over that. Right now I'm just—I'm glad you're all right."

He nods again, scratches his cheek, and lets his hand fall at his side. "There was no right way to handle the truth, you know. If we'd told you from that first time, it would've been more dangerous for you to come here. Look what happened more than a year later." He glances at her, waits until she nods before continuing, "I can't speak for Heavensbee, but I figured you might regret the whole thing if you knew. What would be the point of that? You can't take it back. Things don't just disappear."

"No, they don't." Inhaling deeply, she straightens and fixes her gaze on him. "Do you regret it? Because I don't. I can't regret it, no matter how selfish that sounds."

"It doesn't matter either way."

"Yes, it _does_ ," she insists. "And it matters if Katniss regrets it, and if Peeta regrets it. It matters to me because I'd still be here if not for the documentary, and if everyone would rather I just stayed here, then I will."

For a moment, he is silent. "No," he says, shaking his head. "I don't."

"See," she says, and she can't stop the way her voice shakes now, and how she can't speak above a whisper for this moment, "that matters to me." Sniffing, she looks at her hands, joined together on her lap, neat and proper and calm, all the things she is not, inside, right now. "You know, they told us every little thing we had to do on the job, as escorts. The others and I, we would follow the rules to the letter every year, and after—after Snow spoke to me about my little indiscretion, I worked even harder at being a textbook escort.

"The Quarter Quell was so difficult, though, because nothing was supposed to change, except everything already had. Suddenly, I was going to lose at least one victor, and I—well, how could I not care for you all, after everything? There was no rulebook for that, no little handbook for what to do when your heart is being ripped to shreds. And there's no such guide for anyone on what to do after the rebellion, but especially not for us, for my family and all the people in the city. What are we supposed to do but put on a brave face and hope for the best? And if we make mistakes—well, what more can we do than apologize and try again? And what do we do when that isn't enough? I don't know, I'll never know. I just—I did what I thought was right, and I was careful, and it still wasn't enough, and now I see that the harder I try, the more harm I do."

Sighing, she brushes tears off her cheeks. "So I won't do anything. I won't try to fix it. I'll only make it worse. I've done enough, both good and bad. Do you know, those men, they said I should disappear. Maybe that's what I'll do."

"Disappear how?"

She meets his gaze, the deep frown creasing his brow, the intense, stormy grey of his eyes. "Leave the city," she answers, and shrugs. "Retire for good. Stay in Twelve, if you all would like me to."

Clicking his tongue, he rolls his eyes. "Katniss wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I showed up back in Twelve without you. Peeta wouldn't, either. Come to think of it, he'd probably be worse about it."

"Well, that's nice to hear." Laughing quietly, she shakes her head. "I do mean it, though. Not that I'll never come back here, but—well, I think it's time for other people to take over the airwaves, to produce and direct and all the rest. I've said my share. That's enough for me."

Nodding, he pulls one long sleeve over his hand and brushes her cheek with it. At first she thinks he's tending to the remnant tear streaks, but when he lingers on one spot, brushing it over and over, she realizes he's scrubbing off the blood that Heavenbee and her mother had pointed out earlier. Once he's finished, he offers her a sliver of a smile and says, "Then that's that."

Hanging over them now is silence, a warm shield against the cold wind outside and the clinical professionalism of the people in their uniforms walking to and fro with reports, results, or refreshments, a cup of this or a can of that to get them through a slow day.

Effie plans their return trip in the minutes between someone delivering results to them or asking for a signature here or there. It won't take long to re-pack their bags and bid her family good-bye and get to the train station. Dawn will find them on the train back to Twelve, and soon, they'll be back. She can already feel the still, chilly air and the sunlight, smell the breads and candies and savory stews, see the all those familiar faces.

There may be no rules to follow, but she doesn't need them. The people of Twelve are her teachers, and the house in Victors Village is her school, and her new family, scarred and fragile and brilliant and strong, are her guides, and she theirs in any way that she can. They'll write their own handbook for how to hold back the shadows, and they will live it every day, in every kindness and every breath.

She starts to see them now, in her mother's smile as they leave and in the blue of the sky, which is just beginning to peek out from the heavy clouds that have obscured it for most of the day. Smiling, she writes the first rule. _Try,_ she tells herself, the first word resonating in her mind and through the whole of her, _and mean the best, and listen—but always, always try, or else, you'll never know what good may come of what little you can do._


End file.
